


Azael's Chains

by FreyaFallen



Series: Sanctified [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, BDSM themes (but BDSM is consensual), Belt choking, Blood Drinking, Blood Fetish, Blood Kink, Bondage, Burning, Burns, Choking, Compartmentalization, Dacrophilia, Darkfic, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Degradation, Dependency, Dry Humping, Dungeons, F/M, Fingering, Forced Exhibitionism, Forced Oral, Forced Orgasm, Frottage, Grief and Trauma, Hoods, Humiliation, Knife Play, Knives, Loss of Virginity, Manipulation, Master/Pet, Masturbation, Moral Dilemmas, PTSD, Possessive Behavior, Public Sex, Pureblood Politics (Harry Potter), Rimming, Sadism, Sensory Deprivation, Somnophilia, Torture, Unredeemed Antonin Dolohov, Voyeurism, Water Torture, Whipping, belt whipping, conflicted feelings, denial of bodily autonomy, human pet training, reader stockholm syndrome, reproductive control
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:08:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 55
Words: 100,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25369612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreyaFallen/pseuds/FreyaFallen
Summary: The Battle is over. The War is done. Hermione lives, but she is far from safe in a world where Voldemort rules. She was supposed to die, go out fighting like Harry. Or face execution for her defiance, like Ron. Instead she was given to one of the Dark Lord's followers, a reward for his loyalty and an eternal punishment for her existence.She has met Antonin Dolohov before. He remembers her, has thought about her since their duel in the Department of Mysteries. She will soon see how deep his obsession runs.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Antonin Dolohov
Series: Sanctified [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2155716
Comments: 621
Kudos: 637





	1. Obsession

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Pretty Things](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24886741) by [FreyaFallen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreyaFallen/pseuds/FreyaFallen). 
  * Inspired by [Deal with the Devil](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11029212) by [FreyaFallen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreyaFallen/pseuds/FreyaFallen). 



> I decided to write this after Pretty Things just didn't give me enough Dolohov/Hermione. This particular Dolohov is based on my story Deal with the Devil. Sometimes he will remember things from that story, but it isn't required to read it to understand what's going on. 
> 
> This is just a short little chapter before the story begins.

Howling wind wove through the dry mutterings of the mad and the throaty sobs of the hopeless, all set to the rhythmic waves beating at stone and shushing away. It was a tired, familiar melody to the sallow man sitting in the dismal cell. He’d spent a decade and a half listening to the song of Azkaban, with the barest break in captivity to alleviate his suffering. It was written into his bones, etched with strokes from the icy fingers of the Dementors that roamed the halls.

There were few ways to combat the maddening effects; Bellatrix, consumed as she was with her love of the Dark Lord, had been lost long ago. She cackled more than she cried, the wild baying echoing through the halls. Her husband went unheard in the cell beside hers, though his brother’s dry whisper often skittered through odd silence. The two men were oddly cognizant last he’d seen them.

Dolohov himself liked to think he was sane. He’d focused on people who mattered to him during the first stretch of time imprisoned, though staying away from truly happy moments. He’d figured out that was the way quite by accident.

It was an old, bittersweet memory that had made him mindful of the technique. 

_“She’s pretty when she cries, isn’t she?” The young Dark Lord was stroking through lank wheat-gold hair, though his dark eyes were on his follower. Antonin was trying to suppress the longing lest Riddle decide to act on his behalf and somehow turn it against him._

_He was holding the sweet girl against him, one arm cradling her so his fingers were in her soft tangles, the other draped over her legs. She was still slumbering in his embrace, warm and soft and frail. This was what he’d longed for, what he wanted to keep. He knew the other man would let him in time. Not nearly as soon as he’d like, given the crimson flash and slow baring of fang. Gaze still locked with Antonin’s, Riddle fisted the girl’s hair and tugged her toward him, the other hand wrapping around her slender throat._

_“What--” Her round eyes popped open, features contorting with pain. She did not struggle._

_“Look at her, Dolohov.” He locked onto her face, to the soft fear in her eyes. Riddle’s voice was low, warm, intimate. “You know she bites her bottom lip?” Of course he did. How many times had Antonin watched her and thought about sinking his own teeth into her sweet mouth? “Sometimes I can taste how much she’s worried at it. I like to run my tongue over it, suck it into my mouth, sink my teeth in until I can taste her blood at the surface.” Riddle thumbed the lip so they could see the wet inner flesh. “She’s delicious, Antonin. She plays afraid, but I always find her so wet when I hurt her. And she kisses so softly, pliantly, like she’s begging. Try for yourself.”_

_His head shot up, staring at Riddle incredulously. “My lord?”_

_“Go on. I know you want her. Take a taste. You’ve been good; you deserve a reward.”_

_The girl was so still as he lowered his mouth against hers, one of his large hands cradling the nape of her neck. When he thrust his tongue into her little mouth, possessively roaming it, she whimpered. She tasted of tears and bitter sorrow and it was perfect. Antonin moaned; she whimpered and he was overcome with lust, the choked sob everything to him even as it struck him just what he was doing._

_He tore his mouth away from her, eyes dark as he gazed into her wide, fearful eyes. “Elena…”_

_She huddled into herself, crying, further stiffening when he laid a hand against her back._

_Riddle radiated pleasure. “Leave us.”_

_Antonin could not get away fast enough._

It was not a happy memory, though it was one he treasured all the same. He had hoped throughout his long imprisonment that she would have come back while he was away; he’d be released to find her waiting for him with her sad cobalt eyes and her trembling little hands. 

That had not been the case. 

Indeed, he’d heard she was content with her lonely life. He had raged, considering tracking her down to destroy what happiness she’d found within the strictures the Dark Lord had applied. Antonin would take her and make her his at last.

It would break her.

Once he’d calmed enough to realize that, he sat with his grief. She would never choose him; he’d made too many mistakes for her to endure him. He had to move on. So Dolohov had thrown himself into his role as a loyal Death Eater and tried to move on.

Upon his return to incarceration the memories of Elena were too painful to be of much use as armor. He spent countless days wearing a path into the stones of his prison cell, searching his memories for something, anything that would give respite from the endless sorrow, the heartbreaking betrayal across her face.

When it came, he was stunned at the form it took.

Once more his salvation was a girl. About the age at which he’d met Elena, in fact. A small creature, slim and wide-eyed, but otherwise bearing little resemblance to the obsession of his youth. 

Potter’s mudblood, lit by the flash of curses as she stood in opposition to him, wild curls fanned out around her and wand aloft. She was a curious one. Clever girl had silenced him and that alone was how she survived the curse he’d thrown at her. 

Granger, he recalled. She was a pretty little thing, fiery in battle. At sixteen her accomplishments were enough to set her above most grown wizards; top of her year, had managed to thwart the ministry lackey installed at the school, and was generally a thorn in the side of anyone who went after Potter. “An insufferable know-it-all,” Snape had called her.

He wondered how she was faring now, how she was recovering from his curse. Did it still pain her? What did the scar look like? No one had ever survived for him to see the healed mark of it; he wanted to know how it stretched over the skin, how it felt to the touch, how it colored her youthful flesh.

Happy memories were often sacrificed to Dementors; the sad could break a man. Obsession, though… Obsession would save him.


	2. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Battle of Hogwarts is over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haven't been up for writing much lately, but trying to force something out at least.

Despite the early May sun in the sky, Hermione was bitterly cold. She huddled with her surviving classmates, no longer struggling against her invisible bonds. This was it. She knew it, but held her head high anyway, chill-pale fingers tangling in Ron’s shaggy red hair in her lap. His breathing was shallow, but that it was present was enough for the moment. He was now all she had and she would cling to him with everything in her.

She wondered, as the last of the survivors were rounded up and set into the group around her, whether they were about to be mass murdered. The thought wasn’t necessarily frightening; a part of her had expected to die somewhere along the way. She had accepted that when she realized she would be going with Harry on the mission Dumbledore set for him. Hermione was a muggleborn, the very thing Voldemort swore to eliminate. And she was a realist. Her life was not as important as Harry’s and, had she been able, she’d have put herself between him and the curse that cut him down.

But Harry had out maneuvered her, and he laid dead while she sat among the rubble. At least she would join him soon.

Hermione’s thoughts began to stray toward her parents and their unknowing loss of their teenage daughter, but before she could tread far down that route, she jerked her head and refocused on the world surrounding her. The chill in her fingers, the dirt on her clothes, the constellations over Ron’s cheeks and nose. That was safer; the other led to insanity.

It seemed adults were being separated from the students, with some exceptions. George, empty-eyed and arms folded into himself, was placed among them while the other Weasleys were set aside. 

The ruin of Hogwarts was oddly silent, the Death Eaters slowly falling quiet as their opposition was subdued. There was a heavy static weighing the air, awaiting something.

A soft cry drew her attention back to Ron. His brows were knit, jaw firmed, but he still slept. She smoothed back his oily ginger hair and shushed him. “I’m here, Ron. I’m here.” The crease between his brows slowly eased and he was once more peaceful.

If only she could open her bag and find something to give him, but it was somewhere in the chaos and she was unable to move much as she was. With neither it nor her wand, she felt bare, stripped, small.

Shuffling fabric whispered and boots trod. The crowd parted as the monster himself entered the clearing. He was tall and thin, stretched white snakeskin over a prominent skeleton. The harsh black of his robes did nothing to soften his appearance despite covering what was undoubtedly a matching frame. Scarlet flashed as he surveyed the prisoners. 

“Only one Weasley gone?” His nonexistent brows lifted as the deep, sibilant voice wriggled through them. “I am almost disappointed.” Nervous chuckles from his followers. “What to do with all of these survivors?” 

He considered, gaze once more roving them, this time more individually. When his eyes hit upon her, Hermione suppressed a shudder and instead firmed her jaw in defiance. His amusement was palpable. “Bellatrix, Rodolphus, Rabastan, Antonin, Augustus, Corvus, Theodorus.” Each name contained the unspoken command and the seven swept out of the crowd and knelt before him. “You seven most loyal of my followers. What would you have me do with our prisoners?

Hateful Bellatrix spat her answer first. “Kill them all.” Her shriek was expected, but pierced Hermione’s ears all the same. 

Their lord’s reply was laughter. “And you, Rodolphus? Do you agree?” The other man shrugged and his brother nodded. Voldemort canted his head in question at the others.

“If I may, my lord?”

“Ah, Augustus. Of course.” He gestured for the man to continue.

Rookwood, Hermione thought as the fair haired man sidestepped to better see the Hogwarts students. “As you said before, my lord, magical blood is precious. And these children, while many fought against us, did no more than their parents taught them. Can we not recover them, or make the attempt? Here there are the progeny of many wizarding families; Longbottom--” Neville was unconscious and being held between Luna Lovegood and Susan Bones-- “Jordan, Bones, Macmillan, Smith, even the Weasleys. To have so many families snuffed out for the actions of a few would be tragic.”

Voldemort kept reptilian stillness throughout the little speech, blinked slowly at the end, and nodded. “Perhaps under proper tutelage they can be taught. And the mudbloods, well, we can dispose of them.”

The voice burst within Hermione’s chest as it rose, polite though it was. “My lord.”

All eyes shifted to the dark man at the end of the line of Death Eaters. Something tickled in Hermione’s mind, a flicker of recognition, though she could not fully see his face. 

“You disagree, Antonin?” Her heart stuttered, pain flitting through the scar over her chest.

“Can we not find a place for them, my lord? There may be uses yet, as we are still trying to ascertain the root of their magic. Moreover, some may serve for spell training. We would not want to damage pureblood children.” So polite, so malicious. 

The bone white wand tapped against Voldemort’s leg. “And where shall we keep all of these children? We cannot send them home to their traitor parents.”

“Fostering,” spoke the man she could not place. “They should be fostered with families of good standing.”

“And will you foster one yourself, Theodorus? Perhaps a little friend for your son?”

The man nodded once. “I will, if it pleases you.”

“By all means.” Voldemort gestured magnanimously toward the teenagers. “Choose your new ward.”

“I want a little pet too,” Bellatrix pouted. “Can I have one?”

The pale man tutted. “You can’t murder it, Bella. And I won’t have you ruining a pureblood child.”

A tongue darted over her red mouth. “Then I’ll take a halfblood or a mudblood. Could I kill one of those?”

“Perhaps in time, but Antonin made a good point. Oh, don’t worry, you’ll be allowed at plenty of the adults. Perhaps a Weasley? There are enough of those you could have your pick of the litter. We only need one.”

The psychopath clapped, bouncing so her skirts shuffled and flounced.

“And the rest of us?”

“The seven of you may choose first. One per household for the time being. Leave your brethren something to bicker over.” A throne-like seat appeared and he settled into it. “We can make a show of it, divvying the spoils of the day. Have at it.” 

Hermione clung to Ron in her lap, eyes widening in horror as the seven started toward them. She hadn’t expected this, hadn’t even thought it was a possibility. And now hungry eyes were roaming the group, alighting on faces as the teenagers around her grew still. There were few people between her and the Death Eaters, and she tried to hunch into herself, too conspicuous in her muggle clothes amidst a sea of Hogwarts black. When weight settled over her shoulders, she startled, head whipping around to crack her neck, but it was Ernie Macmillian slipping his robe over her clothes and helping her obscure the shock of red hair in her lap. Her chapped and broken lips parted, but he gave one sharp shake, then nodded to the front.

Bellatrix Lestrange and her husband were whispering back and forth as the witch’s gleeful black eyes danced around. Hermione slowly ducked a bit more, praying she wouldn’t see them. There was no doubt to the girl that Bellatrix would use this as an opportunity for vengeance. Hermione could almost feel that cursed knife running over her skin again, carving more slurs into her. Bellatrix’ eyes were carding through the faces of fear-pale children and finally fell on her, honed to eagle-sharpness, and all of the air left her lungs.

“Granger.”

Her bones leaped within her skin, but the voice was not the shriek she’d feared. Instead it was a low, cultured murmur nearer to her. She slowly looked up at the figure staring down at her, whom she’d somehow not noticed approach. She had met those steely eyes twice before and twice before had drawn her wand against them. Now Hermione had no wand and no hope.

“Come.”

She shook her head, wrapping her arms around Ron.

“This is not a choice, girl. You will come with me, willing or not.”

Ron stirred against her. “I can’t leave him.”

The man’s expression was unmoved. “Very well.” A flourish of his wand and she was wrenched upward feet first, Ron sliding to the dirt.

“No!” It tore through her, throat raw as she continued to cry out. Her curls dragged across the ground as the man directed her body in front of him. “Ron! Ronald!” She was struggling against it, hands scrabbling ineffectually toward the ground, toward the other students, anything.

“Shall I body-bind you as well? Silence you? Knock you out?” His flat tone matched the flatness of his stare. “Well, mudblood? I thought you were supposed to be clever.”

Hatred flared red hot in her chest and she spat at him.

“Very well. _Stupefy_.”

A flash of red and she was out.


	3. New Order

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione wakes.

Hermione hurt. That was the sensation that dragged her unwillingly from dreams that the back of her mind knew were somehow less horrifying than reality. Her head ached thunderously and her body was covered in patches where the pain was more acute than usual. The bubbling sting of burns along her forearm and thigh, the sharp pulse of cuts, the deep thrum of contusions… 

She groaned as she sat up, eyes still closed as her mind slowly puzzled through what had happened before she woke. There was a bed under her, its sheets musty, but soft. It was not what she expected as the events before stupefaction slid into place, and she batted open oak-brown eyes. 

The room was dark and it took a moment to realize the deep golden wallpaper was peeling and aged. It was a decently sized room, and she’d been on a four poster bed larger than those at Hogwarts. Along the walls were lighter patches where paintings and other decor had been removed, even larger swathes where she assumed there’d once been furniture. There was still an ancient vanity, a small table with a gramophone, and a harp missing most of its strings. Hermione turned as much as her neck would allow and saw a long couch with deep scarlet plush stained by things she did not want to know. 

The rug on the floor had probably also once been lovely, intricate as the more vibrant patches were. She tested it under her unsteady feet, balancing with fingertips against a post until she could step of her own volition. She felt as though she’d been through Hell.

She had been, she realized, her own version anyway.

Hermione took a deep breath as Harry’s body and Ron’s limp form flashed through her mind. “No,” she ordered. “Not right now. Later.” First she had to figure out her situation.

So she wove through the room, aching feet hardly feeling the cold wooden floor. Every other step, she had to catch herself against the walls, but she followed the warm light until she came upon the sitting room.

The hearth was vast and solidified her belief that this was a wizarding home. It was perfect for Floo connection, wouldn’t even need to magically increase in size for use. There was a couch and a few chairs, two high backed, circled around it. She could just make out the flame-bathed profile of a man as he stared into the fire before he turned his gaze on her and she stumbled again, barely catching herself on the corner.

“You’re awake.” What was she supposed to say to that? She didn’t say anything at all. “Come sit. You must be cold.” When she did not move, the large man sighed and flourished his wand in warning. She had not noticed it where it rested against the regal old chair. “Am I asking something so difficult? Or perhaps you are weak and would like assistance?”

Hermione took a breath and drew herself to her full height, pushing the pain and unsteadiness to the back of her mind in her strides to the chair on the other side of the hearth. It was significantly warmer, and the chair was admittedly comfortable as she settled onto the threadbare green and black velvet. She drew her legs up, curling in on herself, and watched from her peripherals.

“How are you feeling?” She’d have cursed him if she had her wand, but her throat was sore from her screams as the man looking at her had dragged her away from the last living being she had. So she stayed silent, unsure what would happen if she let anything out. “You must be in pain. I did not inspect your injuries other than to ensure none were lethal.” She cupped her elbows, ignoring the full force of his attention. He sighed. “Miss Granger, I am speaking to you. I would appreciate responses. I do not need to be kind.”

An inelegant snort huffed from her, but that was all.

“Very well.” A shuffle of material and he was stalking toward her, his broad form blocking out the light. He slowly lowered face-to-face with her and she attempted to keep her eyes unfocused. It was more difficult when his own grey eyes were boring into her. He dropped something into her lap, then dropped his hands on the arms, effectively caging her in. “That’s a healing potion. Drink it.” The dark wood of his wand tapped beside her. The threat was implied, but she knew it was here. 

She clenched her jaw. That potion could be anything.

Viper-quick, he clasped her jaw and shook once, fingers bruising-tight until Hermione blinked back the distance. Finally, she refocused on him, her eyes dark with hatred. “There you are. You are lucky to be alive, and more fortunate still that I took you before Bellatrix could sink her claws into you. She wanted to, you know. Threatened and spat and threw a tantrum trying to take you from me, but the Dark Lord stood firm behind my right to you.” Her expression twisted at the suggestion that she was lucky to be under his power. “You will drink the potion. I will summon my house elf for sustenance. And then I will tell you the rules of your new situation. Or I will Imperius you and you will do it all under the curse.”

“What if I throw it off?” Hermione’s voice was a soft croak, but the corners of his mouth twitched. 

“I doubt you’re capable, but I have other curses that might encourage obedience. Perhaps you’d like to sample them?” His eyes glittered dangerously, far too amused at the prospect. She nearly growled and blindly unstoppered the potion, downing it without breaking eye contact. “Good girl.” He thrust her away from his hand and went back to his seat. “Tippy!”

A pop! pierced the air and an elf in what looked like an aged, lacy tablecloth bowed. “What can Tippy do for Master?”

“Evening tea, Tippy, sandwiches, perhaps a few biscuits.” He eyed the girl. “We will take it here.”

The elf bowed again and spun away with another popping noise.

He allowed silence to settle between them while they waited, accompanied only by the dry hiss and soft crackles of the fire as familiar as sunlight now to Hermione. This was clearly Dolohov’s home, and she was now under his guidance, whatever that would mean. She vaguely recalled Lestrange being told she couldn’t kill anyone, but that could change. And curses were a very real, very present threat. 

When the elf returned, it (she could not discern the gender quite yet) levitated down a silver tray laden with steaming tea, mismatched porcelain, and too much food for the two, setting it up on a table beside Dolohov’s chair. 

She was wondering if he would send her tea or she’d be expected to fetch it when everything jerked and she clung to the chair. He’d Summoned her closer and pushed back the couch, the two chairs side-by-side with the table between.Hermione glared, but turned back to ignore him as the elf finished, bowed, and disapparated again.

There was already tea steaming from the little rose-patterned cup nearest her. 

“Please help yourself.” Dolohov sounded every inch the polite host. Hermione wanted to refrain, but being on the run had honed her down to sinew and bone, her stomach nearly hollow inside her ribs now. She plucked a triangle shaped sandwich and licked her lips, reminding herself to eat slowly before she bit in.

It was still a mere moment before she reached for another, taking a generous mouthful of tea between. The warmth of it sank into her stomach and radiated through her in a way she hadn’t realized she needed until it was there. Only the barest fingertip grip on self-control held back the slew of tears.

He was only drinking tea, watching her with all the intensity of a hawk. When she reached for a flakey crescent, he chuckled. “There, now. Not so bad, is it?” Her eyes flicked to him of her own accord and Hermione was glad for the excuse of food in her mouth. “I told you I need not be kind; I need not be cruel either. I’m happy to keep you hale and healthy, but I am not afraid of cruelty, Hermione. On the contrary, I revel in it.” 

The scar across her chest tingled in memory, an echo of the pain that had pounded on her for months after the battle in the ministry. Without the distraction of other pains, it was more noticeable now. 

She swallowed more of the soothing amber tea and met his stare. Her voice was stronger this time, but still hoarse. “What do you want with me?”

His eyes were hungry as they roved her face, flitted down to where his curse had hit her, and back up. He smiled, sharp as shale, and gestured toward her and their surroundings. “This.”

“‘This?’” Hermione parroted. “What do you mean, ‘this?’”

Dolohov rested his head on a fist. “Azkaban was a cold, lonely place. The war wearied me. I have no need to listen to the Bellatrixes of the world screech, or to beg for status like Lucius Malfoy. I want to enjoy my family home and live in peace with a little pleasant company.”

“Well, if you wanted pleasant company, anyone at Hogwarts could have told you I’m shit at it.” She had nearly snorted her tea. She felt like Ron.

“Mm. I disagree. You’re a bright young woman, pretty enough, interesting. I value those traits far more than good breeding or pretty manners.” 

His evaluation of her offset the warmth of the tea, and Hermione’s chest caught as she lowered the porcelain to its saucer with a delicate ringing voicing her nerves. “When you say company, then, does that entail…?” She could not bring herself to finish and she now trained her gaze on the rippling surface of her drink.

“Sex?” She flinched back and his laugh was deep, masculine. “It might,” he admitted. “It doesn’t need to be rape. I also get enjoyment from your pain. That, I’m afraid, is non-negotiable. I will heal you if your pain is for my pleasure alone, but I will enjoy your pain regardless of the reason. Your best chance at avoiding my worst is obedience. Do not incur my wrath, or you may find yourself taking more than you can bear.”

Hermione stared wide-eyed at him, lips parted in horror. He was speaking of these things so casually, as though they were matter-of-course in life. And it took a moment for her logical mind to catch up and remind her that for him it was just that. “I’m not going to-- going to-- go to bed with you,” she settled on at last. 

“Not willingly, then.” His smile now was more easy and he looked almost boyish despite the facial hair and greys at his temples. It was so at odds with his words that it was surreal. “Relax, Miss Granger. I am not a brute. Not usually.” Something flitted behind his eyes and he frowned. “Well. Be good and you should not see my worst.”

“And how do I do that exactly?” Hermione spoke the words deliberately, softly, lest her tone now suddenly set him off. 

He sipped at his tea and considered. “Obedience, as I said before. I prefer my women obedient, though I will bleed enjoyment from them if they are not. Be respectful. Do not attempt to leave the house without me. You can’t in any case, but I will be cross if you try. Act civilized.”

Before she could stop herself, Hermione retorted, “But I’m a mudblood, Mr. Dolohov. Or did you forget that?”

The teacup clattered and sloshed onto its saucer as he glared. “You betray yourself already? Yes, but you are a little Gryffindor, aren’t you? Proud and insufferable. Would you like a taste?” She bit her lip and shook her head. “As I thought. You will learn to hold your tongue, or the next time you’re disrespectful you will find yourself regretting it." When she nodded he relaxed back into his chair.

They sipped their tea and the tension slowly drained back to what it had been before her faux pas. When she thought it safe enough, she cleared her throat and asked the question that had been burning her since he’d said her name in the rubble of Hogwarts.

“Why me?” 

He was staring again and she held herself taut to avoid squirming. She could practically feel the weight of his eyes, and the silence stretched so long she began to believe he would never answer.

Then-- “Come here.”

“What?” It was startled from her.

“Come. Here.” The words were low, barely a murmur, but hard as the flint in his eyes. “I wish to see your scar."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to update more regularly. There has been... Well, my little family has dealt with a lot the last few months. I've only just gotten back any ability to write as I want. Anyway. You can see about updates, whether I'm able to b a person, etc, via the link to my carrd in my profile. It has my Twitter, Tumblr, so on.
> 
> Anyway. I have only the vaguest plan for this story, so I'm pretty much just writing however I feel it should go. My other stories are mostly laid-out. This is my errant escape.


	4. Scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione shows him her scars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just have not been able to write... But then this happened. So enjoy.

"What?" Hermione repeated, small hands flying to hug against the drumming of her heart. 

Dolohov lifted a dark brow and rolled his jaw as he considered her, his wand tapping a tattoo against the arm of his seat. As he began to lift it, the girl threw herself from her chair and he stilled, head tipping as he watched her with the distant curiosity of a hawk watching a mouse. She drew in rough drafts of air, shaking legs shuffling to stand near his chair. When she was nearly there, his free hand darted to wrap around one slim forearm. Hermione flinched and his grip tightened, thumb overlapping his fingers around the limb. He leveraged it to tug her between his wide-spread knees. 

This was far closer than Hermione had ever desired being to the broody Death Eater. Even seated, his presence seemed to loom over her, slate eyes levelly boring into her. When she moved no further, his lips parted to sigh. "You will not make this easy, will you?"

She was trembling, but firmed her jaw so the muscles ached in an echo of her healed away headache. 

A flick of his wand and her arms were bound behind her back. It had been silent, even his wand movement abbreviated, and her eyes widened. When the Death Eater's thick fingers rose toward her, she jerked back and nearly tumbled into the fiery hearth behind. Only his fore and middle fingers hooking into one of the belt loops of her jeans kept her upright. 

"Careful, Miss Granger." 

She straightened, caught between opposing infernos, one of heat and one of darkness. 

Her silence flittered between them and his lips tugged in patient amusement. "Stand still." The rough pad of one thumb stroked the hard curve of a hip bone carved from lean times. He hummed and considered her form. "We shall have to remedy your malnutrition." His hand stroked up the curve of her waist, tickled against her clothed upper arm, then trailed along her collarbone until his fingertips played along the hem of her shirt. He tugged the ragged material down, but could only make out a sliver of paler, thicker tissue there. 

She turned her cheek and stared at the shadows on the wall.

The man's gaze flicked back to her face and he considered her. "Look at me, girl." Though her lips pressed tightly, she did as bidden. "I want to see all of the mark I left on you. And this shirt," Dolohov murmured as he stroked the thin cloth between his fingers, "it has seen better days." With that, he slid the tip of his dark wand down the length of her shirt and it peeled apart like the skin of an overripe fruit. 

Hermione did not want to look at her battered flesh, but she could not help but glimpse down at herself. The scar he wanted to see started over her chest above her left breast, bisected her sternum to the notch between her ribs, where it was thickest, like a silvery star of scar tissue. Shorter arms danced from there toward the bottom of her bra and the top of her hip. 

The Death Eater's fingers skittered along it, just grazing her skin, and she hunched in on herself but did not move away. When he reached the heart of the mark, he flattened his palm over it and stroked his thumb in the valley between her modest breasts. She followed the line of his arm to his face, and regret immediately shivered through her.   
  
His lips were parted, and as she watched, his too-red tongue skimmed them. His eyes were heavy-lidded and focused on her torso, pupils swallowing up the charcoal of his eyes. Those eyes trailed up to meet hers as though pulled by the force of her own terrified gaze, and her breath hissed out as his fingers squeezed into her delicate skin. When his thumb eased under the wire of one cup, Hermione started to step to the side, but he lifted his wand in warning. 

His nail trailed the line of the scar there before stroking the bottom curve of her breast. 

"Don't." It was a whisper and nearly caught in her throat. 

"You're such a little thing. Are you afraid?" Syrup thick desire dripped from the words. Hermione's brows twitched together and she jerked her head in denial, drawing a chuckle from him. "Relax, kitten." His fingers were reluctant to leave her as he pulled his hand away. "I will break you in slowly as long as you're a good girl."

The words lanced through her chest with a fission of fear. 

He tugged on the tattered remnants of her battleworn blouse. "You have blood in your hair, kitten. You need to bathe, much as I enjoy the sight of blood on a woman. Go. I'll have Tippy deliver something clean for you to wear." When she hesitated, he added, "Unless you would like my assistance?"

"No," Hermione murmured, edging away from the shadowed presence lest his body follow his gaze along her path. 

  
The heat of the bath eased into her muscles even as the water nettled at the wounds across her body as Hermione lowered herself into the steaming claw foot tub. It had been so long since she truly bathed, and the prickling of tears accompanied the tightening of her throat as this little luxury sent thoughts reeling to her life a mere ten months prior, when the simple little pleasure was a matter of course. When her parents would grace her with loving smiles, when Hedwig would bring word from Harry, when the world was a mere breath from Hell rather than deep in its midst.

Hermione curled her arms around her knees and laid her head across the roughened knobs. Her skin was an angry pink where the water touched, and dirt and gore swirled in grimy curls away from her. She blinked as a streak on her arm was sloshed away, becoming the scarlet of blood before it lightened in the water. It wasn’t her blood. 

The bathroom sucked the breath from her chest and her pupils shrank to pinpoints as she stared. Whose blood was it? 

A bubble of tight terror expanded in her chest as the sloshing of the water eased against her stillness.

Whose blood was it? 

A heated waterfall drenched her cheeks as the question pounded through her, squashing the bubble so terror traced her veins through her body and lanced her heart with panic.

Friend or foe? Could it be werewolf blood? Was ingesting or getting their blood on wounds enough to impact a person? 

“Oh God.” 

It was a broken sob as she launched for the wash rag and flowery soap to begin scrubbing at the offensive spot. But when she’d removed it, she saw another, another, another, until she was frantically rubbing both soap and cloth over her entire body, dingy waves splashing onto the hardwood floor. Her chest expanded painfully, heart too large in her ribs despite that, breath scrabbling cries between sobs. 

“Missy?”

That could be Ron’s blood. He’d been injured before falling unconscious. His pale-lashed eyes flashed through her mind and she cringed.

“Missy Granger?”

It could be Remus’. She’d checked his body in the hour break. Or Tonks’ blood. They’d seemed almost asleep side-by-side, and her fingers had itched to join their empty palms, to join the pair in death as they’d just become in life.

Her ears rang over the memory of screams and incantations. Every flutter of her lashes illuminated another beloved face she would not see again. Hagrid. Colin Creevy. Fred, and Lavender, and her parents and...

“Harry.” 

He looked so small there on the ground, glasses askew. They were broken again and she had to fix them. She had to; he never remembered the spell. It was up to her.

“Granger.”

Vices latched onto her biceps, shaking her so the roaring and sloshing intensified, but she could hardly pay attention to calls for her when there was so much death she had to see.

“Granger!”

Her body rose, shivering in the sudden cold, and she thrashed as she was shoved into a wall by her opponent. Her wand. Her wand wasn’t in her hand. Why wasn’t she holding her wand? She needed to fight. How could she fight like this?

She was shaken again, or perhaps it was the walls around her, the crumbling ruin of Hogwarts, that was shaking. Hermione tried to kicked away her assailant, but a wall of fabric pressed against her, trapped her. She was screaming along with her sobs now, couldn’t hear anyone around her, couldn’t focus, could only see looming black.

White stars burst over her vision as the meaty slap resounded across her cheek. The pain was hot, and she fell into herself as the impact site flushed. Hermione dragged in a shaking, ragged breath and sagged against the soft black cloth before her. Her arms, held together overhead by her wrists, were slowly lowered to the firmness just above her head. 

The cloth was wet where she leaned against it, and water still trickled off her damp body to puddle on the floor. A hand was tucking damp curls back where they stuck to her cheeks and throat. 

“There we are, good girl.” The low voice rumbled throughout the chest she was pressed against. It was soft, the sort of tone her father would use when she had nightmares as a child. “Just focus on breathing.” Her breath hitched with another drenching of tears. “Let it out. That’s it.”

Arms gathered her and she was wrapped up and small and safe, transported to those nights so long ago. The man sat and rocked her on his lap, rubbing soothing circles on her back. An unfamiliar tune with unfamiliar words was murmured into her soggy hair. The words sounded not just unfamiliar, but foreign, and it took a moment for Hermion’s mind to focus through the fog enough to realize they were not English. She frowned. It wasn’t French, either, the only other language her father spoke. 

Cold doused her memories from her like a bucket of ice and Hermione tried to shove away, but the man holding her was far stronger.

“Shush, kitten, I’m only trying to help.” When she redoubled her struggling, he sighed. “I could tie you until you’re calm if you’d prefer.”

She stilled. “No, I would not prefer.”

“Then stay still. I am attempting to comfort you.”

Hermione weighed her options and relaxed her limbs as much as she could. “Let me go.” A beat. “Please.” When he released his grip, she scrambled from his lap and for the first cloth in sight. She hid her body behind it before noticing it was a robe, then eased into it, attempting to conceal her naked body as she did.

The Death Eater had an air of mocking amusement as he made no game of hiding watching her. “You nearly rival me in your collection of scars,” he said at last. 

She sneered, arms crossed over her now-covered chest. “You can thank your friends for that.”

“That’s war.” He shrugged, tipped his head, and considered her. “Has that happened before?” Dolohov indicated the door to the bathroom she’d drenched.

“Never.” The only time that had been close, she was actively being tortured. 

They were sitting on the bed where she’d woken. His long legs were over an edge, but Hermione had crawled toward the headboard in her panic. The silk of the purple, white flowered robe clung to her skin close as her bruises. She drew her knees inward so she could more easily slide them beneath herself to launch if need be. The man did not move as he made a study of her. When he broke their truce to lift his wand, she flinched, but the incantation accompanying the movement was just, “ _Accio_ Dreamless Sleep.” A vial zipped into the room and he plucked it into his waiting palm. “You will need this, no doubt. If you cannot take a bath without a flashback, sleep will prove impossible.”

He offered the potion to her and her shadowed russet eyes darted between it and his face.

“Come.” Dolohov jiggled the vial before her. “I will do nothing to you as you sleep. You need your rest.”

She’d risen to a crouch, but suspicion still darkened her gaze. “Why are you being this way?”

One corner of his mouth ticked. “I told you, Miss Granger. So long as you are well-behaved, I will treat you accordingly.”

She chose to believe him for the moment, snatching the potion from him and downing it in her desperation to escape the harsh reality that was bleeding into every moment. He left her just as it was taking effect, door whining closed as her lids did the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A reminder that I do not plan to abandon any WIPs, so rest assured they will all be finished eventually.


	5. Agony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione learns the pattern of her days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait!

She did not want to get out of bed when she woke the next morning. The bed seemed to buoy her body aloft on its gently firm mattress, the sheets silken soft against her skin, the room dim and cool and silent in that twilight perfect for napping away the day. It wasn’t as though Hermione had a reason to rise; there were no boys to wrangle, no wards to check, no classes to attend. She had only herself. And she wanted to immerse herself in that nothingness that was the space between dreams and waking.

Alas, others laid claim to her as well, she was reminded as a crack disturbed her peace.

“Missy Granger must get up.”

She groaned and rolled onto her stomach, burying her head in the doughy give of the pillow. “No, thank you.” A whoosh preceded the sudden brightness flooding the room and blanketing the back of her eyelids with red. “It’s time for breakfast. Miss must get up,” the elf insisted as the blankets retreated.

Despite the gnawing hollow in her gut, Hermione said, “I’m not hungry,” and wrapped her arms around the pillow. Something poked at her exposed cheek and she opened one red-rimmed eye to see the violent grass of the elf’s peering at her.

“The Master says Missy must come to breakfast, so Missy must get up.” She shook one stern finger at the teen. “Tippy will take Missy herself if Missy doesn’t go willingly.”

At this Hermione sat up, sleep wiped from her expression. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Tippy obeys Master. Tippy is a good elf. Missy Granger needs to be good too.” 

When the elf continued to stare her down, Hermione huffed and wammed the pillow against the bed. She took a breath, smoothed her hands overself, and stood. “And just how am I supposed to get ready? I haven’t anything to wear.”

Tippy snapped her long, brittle fingers and a length of slate grey was draped across the bed. “A robe for Missy,” the elf declared, a hint of satisfaction letting Hermione know this had been expected.

The young woman took up the length of cloth and made her way to the adjoined room where she could wash away the grime of the morning with metallic water from a brass tap. It seemed it was time to don a mask once more. She’d worn many during her life, from aloof encyclopedia (whose emotions were tucked away beneath a padding of paper-thin knowledge) to the brave face of the Horcrux hunter at Harry’s side (those too cold days after Ron had left and before his return, when she had to keep them going as Harry’s hope chipped away like the splinters of his wand). This was new territory entirely, but she had read about compartmentalizing to survive trauma, had enacted it in little ways before, and now she would again.

It was like Occlumency; apparently it could even be considered in that realm. An occlumens compartmentalized out of necessity during training. It was one technique for keeping dangerous thoughts locked away, though a master legilimens would detect the hidden region. In that case it was better to know how to redirect or fabricate. 

_Snape was a master of both, I suppose. He had deceived everyone. Not even Dumbledore had known the true extent of his manipulations._

If Snape could manage that for a decade and a half Hermione could endure this until she found a way out.

As she brushed her teeth and combed her hair and washed the parts of her body that had sweated through the night and her panic attack, Hermione sieved out the safe parts and pushed back all that threatened her composure. She boxed away the memories of the battle to mere impressions, the sorrow of obliviating her parents, the pain of torture at Malfoy Manor. And when she was finished, she sought to face herself.

There she was. Paler, certainly, and far thinner than she’d ever been. Positively gaunt with hollowed eyes staring back at her, paralleling the hollows of her cheek, the notch of her throat, the shadows beneath her clavicles. Her hair was even somehow less. Though longer, as she’d not cut it as she’d cut the boys’, it was bedraggled at the ends and lank at the roots. It hung heavily even as edges of unrepentant curls tufted away from the drudged mass hanging beyond her shoulders. However, it was her eyes that startled her most.

She’d expected dullness there too, or perhaps that distant and slightly haughty gaze that spoke of her superior intellect (familiar old shield). Instead they were too large, the whites shot with red and apparent all the way around her tawny bright eyes. Had they ever been so bright? Had they ever shown like she had a film of unshed tears awaiting the next tragedy? Had they ever reflected so perfectly the beating of her heart?

Hermione tore herself from the mirror before those eyes could tunnel through her newly minted wall. Her nails bit into the grooves of her palm and she stepped onto the creaking floor of the bedroom where the elf still waited. Tippy nodded, satisfied that she was ready, and escorted her through the manor to the dining room.

It was brighter than any other she’d seen thus far, nearly a solarium with the windows along half the walls reaching floor to ceiling. An oak table was laid with all the accoutrement of a full breakfast despite only two places set for diners. Dolohov was standing beside his seat at her entrance.

He was not in unrelieved black, and she frowned as she noted the peculiarity of the pale blue button-up on the Death Eater. A flick of his fingers and the chair to his right stuttered against the floor to open the seat to her. She sat, neatening her hands over the sheen of the grey dress she wore, and stared down at the porcelain plate.

“Would you care for tea? Juice? We have pumpkin, grapefruit, and apple.”

She grit her teeth behind firmly shut lips and forced herself to take in a calming breath before responding. “No. Thank you.” To emphasize her denial, she lifted the water goblet with two shaking hands and took a draught. 

Hermione could feel his gaze still trained on her. When his head dipped at the edge of her vision, a tightness eased in her chest. “Very well.” He took a drink of his own steaming teacup.

Breakfast was a tense affair. She helped herself to a croissant and little pieces of fruit, but otherwise had not much appetite. That, and her stomach had grown disused to large portions of food, so she needed to go slowly. Memory reminded her what happened when those who went without consumed too heartily. Her host did not share the issue, and consumed dripping meat and buttery spreads without hesitation. He had been out of Azkaban long enough, she supposed. When they’d met briefly in her fifth year, he’d been far more skeletal.

The house elf cleared away their plates and anything uneaten when he’d slowed to stopping, leaving only the tea service behind. Unasked, he levitated a steeping cup to her.

“You will not keep me waiting next time.” Dolohov’s voice was low, but firm. “We will eat meals together and you will take tea with me upon my request.”

She stared at the whirling peonies in their purples and pinks bright on the creamy porcelain china. That color tickled at her and she traipsed a finger on the fragile gilded edge. “And if I’m not hungry?”

The was that steel once more, his hard gaze boring into her. “You will eat. You are far too thin to forego meals.”

Her jaw tightened and she paused in her tactile wandering. “I’d rather eat alone.”

“Are you testing me?” He rose and was beside her in one fluid motion, his broad shoulders blocking out the morning sun where it streamed in from the east. “Do not forget your place here, or I will gladly remind you.”

 _Threatening schoolgirls. Charming._ It was at the tip of her tongue, but she closed her eyes and schooled herself behind the mask she was attempting to build. “No. I will come to meals as you say.” 

His fingertips brushed along her jaw before he stepped back. “Good. Then you are excused once you have finished your tea.”

She drank down the cup in one long mouthful, the delicate glisten of the china flashing behind her eyelids as she did. Pale, pale cream. Almost white, but just not. White like Voldemort’s wand. She snatched back her hand as she set down the empty cup, fingers tingling at the memory of the silken smoothness of it.

Bone china.

She fled to the quiet of her room.

Their meals were relatively uneventful, mostly consisting of a few vague questions from Dolohov and Hermione’s tri-syllabic responses (“How did you sleep?” “Fine, thank you.” “Would you like more tea?” “No, thank you.”). He did not press for more, though he watched and weighed her throughout every encounter. He asked her for tea the second day and when he asked her to join him after dinner on the third night, she realized he was trying to accustom her to his presence slowly.

Hermione knew that it was not a request, despite his phrasing. He had a way of turning questions to demands when her opinion didn’t matter. So she nodded and followed him to the study where they’d first taken tea. It was as she settled into the same musty velvet of that night that a deep bell signaled the arrival of someone at the door. Dolohov frowned and tilted his ear toward his elf when Tippy came a moment later. A long-suffering sigh precluded his, “Very well.” As the elf vanished to escort his guest, he summoned forth another chair opposite Hermione’s, then considered her. “I suppose you would meet with my more frequent visitors eventually. You will be polite. If you misbehave, there will be consequences.”

Before she could ask Tippy was back and bowing low to her master. “Master Lestrange for you.”

Needles prickled across her skin and she jolted in herself at the name. He was blessedly alone, but the dark wizard was enough to set her pulse rushing in her ears. 

“Sit, Rod, you know the lay of the land.” Dolohov raised a glass to the other man, the amber liquor sloshing gently up the sides. Another cut crystal tumbler levitated to Hermione and she hesitated before plucking it from the air. It sat between her folded legs. She stared down at the warm water patterns of light as Lestrange fell into his seat and accepted a drink of his own. “Bellatrix drive you out for the evening?”

“She still has not come back to the manor,” the other responded with a chuckle. “She’s busy helping the Dark Lord with the straggling survivors. And I’ve grown bored with the Longbottom boy. He must be kept relatively hale and whole for the moment, so I am limited. I could do so much more had I been allowed to choose my own little toy.” His eyes slid to her, oil slick in depth and weight. “A pretty little girl to keep me warm when the wife is away.”

Dolohov huffed a laugh against his drink. “Or when she is present.” 

Lestrange tipped his glass to that. “Though I’m sure I’d have quite the wait had she gotten her way. And the mudblood would be far from pretty at that point. Still warm though.”

Ice shivered over her spine and Hermione hardly dared breathe as the words sank into her. Did the male Death Eaters think of nothing but forcing themselves on women? Her mind flashed to the Snatcher who’d caught them during the hunt and his hungry eyes, and Hermione took a swill of the burning drink to push away the memory of his hand skimming on her cheek.

“I am surprised to see her looking so…” Lestrange gestured toward her as he waffled. “Put together. Clean and dressed and unmarked. Where skin shows that is.”

“I am taking care of her. We currently only get one, and I intend for Miss Granger to last.”

“I am sitting right here,” she finally broke in, heat stoking at their audacity. “In case either of you forgot that. And I am a person, not a toy.”

“She speaks!” Rodolphus sounded amused more than upset. “Speak again, bright angel.”

Whatever she had expected from Lestrange, Shakespeare was certainly among the last on the list. Hermione gaped at him, brows not quite sure whether to rise in startelement or drag in a frown.

Dolohov tapped his forefinger against his tumbler, the clear crystal chiming delicately. “Indeed, you are here. And you are certainly not a toy. A pet, perhaps.” He turned the force of his steely gaze on her. “I have you fed, bathed, groomed. I am giving you boundaries. And discipline.”

“I’m not--”

“You are,” he cut her off, voice edged with something dangerous. “Am I not training you? You arrive at my table every morning, dressed in clothing I provide. You eat your meals and await my dismissal before leaving. If I say you are my pet, then you are my pet.”

Lestrange was laughing softly behind him, glancing between the pair with an eager glint. “A pet mudblood. Yes, it sounds good. She doesn’t seem broken in quite yet though.”

Dolohov did not look away as he responded. “No, she is not. We are early in the process yet.” Her stomach was churning with fire, smoking tightly in her chest as she tried to keep herself compliant. “She is learning. Aren’t you, kitten?” He cocked his head in that predatory manner of his and she nodded once.” “Ah-ah,” he admonished. “I’ll need to hear it.”

“Yes.” Her throat ground out the word quite unwillingly.

“‘Yes’ what?” Despite the soft curl of one corner of his mouth, his eyes were cold and piercing. 

Her lips twisted. “I am learning.”

“You’re learning your place,” the Death Eater provided. “As my pet.” When she kept silent, he added, “Well? Say it.”

The heat of her anger was transforming, twisting her stomach with mortification and rising to flood her cheeks. “I’m learning.” Hermione swallows through the stone of humiliation in her throat. “That I am your pet.” Her fingers were turning white where she gripped the glass.

But it satisfied Dolohov; he nodded and broke his gaze from her while Lestrange clapped thrice and chuckled.

“Good show. Bella would be jealous; she was hardly able to get the mudblood to speak until she started cutting her up.” He hummed fondly at a memory that sent a lancing pain down Hermione’s forearm, and the hatred nearly cut through her embarrassment. “Have you seen that scar, Ant? Done with a cursed blade so she couldn’t charm it away.”

“I have not. I was far more concerned with the scar I put on her.” 

“Ah. I forgot you’d cursed her at the Ministry. The lone survivor of the _Prae Dolore_.” Lestrange became contemplative. “Did it hurt much?” 

A beat passed and Hermione realized he’d addressed her directly. She blinked up at him and answered without thinking, “Well, yes.”

She regretted it as his tongue flicked wetly over his lips. “How long did it take to heal? How long was it agony?”

When she did not speak, Dolohov leveled his stare back at her. “Answer.” Curiosity sparked a silver glint in his eyes.

It took a few tries, but she finally whispered, “Months.”

If the Death Eater were a cat he’d have purred, she was sure. He reminded her of Crooks after he’d eaten a bird. “It’s quite the scar, Rodolphus. Low on her sternum and radiating outward. It accents her little breasts nicely. Like a star to draw the eyes down her body.” His own dropped to the place it hid beneath the black dress. “But I would like to see the scar Bellatrix left. Come, kitten.”

Petrifaction in its familiar heaviness sped into her bloodstream. It had been deeply vulnerable revealing the scar Dolohov had put on her; she’d shown more skin with him than any past boyfriend. Still, that scar was familiar by now, had integrated into her mind as a battle scar. The one on her arm… Her fingertips brushed the fabric covering it. Dolohov had lifted an expectant brow and her heart hammered as she slowly pushed herself up and walked toward him with leaden limbs.

His swift grip wound around her wrist and he tugged her toward him, once more between his long legs. Only now the additional shadow of Rodolphus Lestrange hovered at the side, anticipation written across his face. His thumb and middle finger held her in place while his other hand tugged up the soft material. The shaky letters were revealed one by one until the red scar was free from concealment.

Hermione flinched back, but Dolohov’s fingers were a shackle. He traced the letters with a curious finger, the skin still tender at the touch. He trailed up her forearm, gaze continuing to watch her face as he handled her.

Her pulse was rebelling against his grip as panic frayed at the edges of her mind. She had to keep herself under control or she’d wind up doing something foolish, something instinctual, something--

A pale, knobby jointed hand reached out and she slapped it away with a forceful, “Don’t!”

The moment of silence where it struck her what she’d done seemed to stretch hours and snap into reality in a blink. Dolohov tugged her toward him with the hand still holding her while the other fisted her hair, wrenching her to her knees She could not see Lestrange, but she could feel him fuming. “You stupid, stupid girl. You dare strike my guest? Do you even fathom the mistake you’ve just made?” He shook her and she tried to find words, thoughts, anything to minimize the situation.

“I- I’m- I-”

“Quiet.” Her neck twisted uncomfortably as he turned to his friend. “Rodolphus, if you would be so kind as to excuse us for the evening. It seems I must discipline my new pet. When you next see her, she will beg your forgiveness.”

Lestrange stared down at her and the thoughtful distance in his eyes sent a lance of fear through her already terrified nerves. “Very well. Good evening, Antonin.”

The door had not yet shut when Dolohov rose, still clutching Hermione so she half-dragged along the floor before she found her feet. She had to scramble in a tangle of limbs as he still held her lower to the floor than her height. “Please, I--”

“Do not speak.” They were going downstairs. She tried to recall if she knew of a downstairs in this house, because if there was none, that meant only one thing, and she did not want that to be where they were headed. Hermione hardly breathed as a heavy door shut behind them, and then she was thrown against stone floor and the air was forced from her all at once. She hastily pushed to her knees, watching with eyes large as an elf’s.

“I gave you a chance.” His black leather boots echoed softly across the room. “Had you been obedient, I would have eased you into my preferences. A few cuts, perhaps a caning.”

“But he touched--”

The back of his hand didn’t register before it struck her back to the floor. “I don’t care. Rodolphus knows better than to try anything untoward with what’s mine. I am the master here; I am the one who decides who may touch you and who may not.” 

Hermione huddled in on herself, arms wrapping her knees to her chest. The floor was cool and smooth beneath her and she could feel the slice of the knife as it drew blood on another hard floor only months ago. Her breaths were knots in her throat and she gulped them down in great mouthfuls.

“I told you what would happen if you were a bad little girl. That my introduction may be more than you can swallow.” He paced closer, one hand lacing through her messy locks. “This will hurt. I am going to enjoy it quite a bit, but you…” His thumb traced her cheekbone as he smiled that sharp baring of his teeth at her, eyes mercurial. “You will be a canvas for the most exquisite pain.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been dealing. Got sick, it was bad enough I had trouble sleeping. BUT it was not COVID. Trying to push myself into writing more again. I still have not abandoned any WIPs. They will all be finished.
> 
> Here we go down the rabbit hole.
> 
> Check out my profile for info on how to reach me if you have questions.


	6. Painted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Punishment and rape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check the tags. I updated for clarity. This is not a happy fic; if you've read my Antmione one-shot you've hopefully noticed I go pretty dark.

Hermione flinched back into the wall, drawing a soft chuckle from the Death Eater. “Where would you like to begin, kitten? There are so many possibilities.” He tapped his wand against his thigh. “Shall I strip off your flesh? Brand you? Create new mouths across your flesh?” 

Her pulse thrummed in her throat, eyes widening to take in all of the predator before her. Hermione spread her arms along the cool dampness of the wall, sidling away.

“Ah,” he admonished. “I don’t think so.” A flick of his wand sent chains snaking down to her wrists. Manacles tugged her onto her toes as more wound up from the floor to splay her legs wide. “There, now. You have no way to escape this, pet. You are completely at my mercy.” Dolohov stalked closer, nose sliding into her hair. 

No escape. The words echoed and her skin felt too tight for her ribcage, as though her bones wanted to flee her flesh and leave this Hell behind. She was trapped. Pain was inevitable. Hermione closed her eyes and pushed back against the flood of helplessness that threatened to overwhelm her. The surface shone like a mirror, but in its depths she could see the shadow of Malfoy Manor and Bellatrix Lestrange. 

She jerked her headway from him, trying to burrow into herself, scrabbling for a safe haven in her mind. Potions recipes. She could go through the process to make Draught of Peace. Asphodel. Powdered moonstone. 

A line of heat seared down her chest and cool air rushed in to send gooseflesh pebbling across her midsection. Her eyes snapped open as her front was bared, dress and undergarments waffling around her. Rough fingertips skimmed her ribs and she threw herself against her restraints, her body arcing painfully against the restrictions. “No!”

Dolohov’s grip tightened bruisingly in the spaces between her ribs and the point of his dark wand was against the pulse of her throat. “You beg so prettily, I cannot resist giving you what you so obviously want. _ Crucio _ .”

At Bellatrix Lestrange’s wand the Cruciatus had been nearly maddening. Her body had shaken with the aftermath for a week afterward, though she’d hidden it from the boys. It had raced through her veins molten-hot, and her body had thrashed against the marble floor to cover her in bruises purple as night. It was a shallow imitation of what Dolohov did to her now.

In those moments, Hermione did not exist. She was pain, and it was never ending. There was no awareness of before, no knowledge that there would be something after. She could not conceptualize anything. Her mind failed her.

So spectacularly did it fail that she lived in the pain for long breaths when it had finally stopped. She came to herself with ragged sobs accompanied by the metallic chiming of the chains, trembling and wheezing as aftershocks racked her stretched-taut body. She was too hot, but her skin was ice and drenched in sweat and more.

“There, now.” A hand stroked in her damp hair and she could just make out his wand held there as well. The other was still curled around her waist. “I know it hurts. My Cruciatus is like nothing you’ve felt before, is it?” He hummed into ear, breath stifling against her sensitive skin. “And now everything I do to you will draw forth these lovely after-pains. Each tense muscle will send the pain signals dancing down your nerves again. Lovely, isn’t it?”

Another sob choked out of her as she began processing his words, and as that brought first more pain, it became a bitter laugh. “You’re a monster.”

He hummed again, a low, pleased note. “Yes.” When his fingers trailed up her side and plucked at one of her nipples, the grit of her teeth sent a spasm through her head hard enough to make her dizzy. His thumb continued to tease at the little nub and she tried to deepen her breath and ignore it, but even that made her ache. “What a delightfully responsive little body you have, kitten. I can see every flinch, every little pain. And you look so breakable.” His hand roamed her body possessively, digging against starkly covered bone and into sinewy muscle. “A little softening and you will be perfect.” Dolohov’s large, hot palm flattened above her pubis. “Tell me, Hermione, has anyone ever touched you like this before?”

She jerked in her chain, setting another wave of hurt through her body as his fingers skimmed the dark thatch of curls. “Go to Hell.” He stilled and the hair on her nape stood on end. When he backed away she was left shivering. 

“Very well.” The chains jolted her into the center of the room as h e circled around her back. “Since you’ve asked so nicely.” The only warning was a curious whistling through the air, then fire licked across her back and she screeched. Another had landed before the words formed in her mind. A whip. He was whipping her. As the lash curled around her ribs she could not help but gaze down at it. The cracker was well out of sight, but there was a red stripe radiating from a an equally red circle that welled with scarlet as she watched. The little mouth trickled a long streak of blood down the ridged stretch of skin. It was almost enough to distract her from the pain, but the silence between cracks shortened and soon her spine bowed her into a crescent moon screaming with the reflection of agony. “Stop stop! Please stop!” Her voice cracked and popped as it unwilling spilled from a raw throat. 

The fall rained down until her voice began to fail and bleed into b roken whines. Rustling and muffled thumps preceded his hand skimming through streaks of her blood. “But you look so pretty dripping like this for me.” He pressed against her and she felt his excitement against the small of her back. “Red is truly your color, little Gryffindor.” He painted her stomach in lines of scarlet as he dipped back down to the short curls at her center. The rough pads skimmed over her slit and Hermione sobbed. “Will you answer me now, Hermione? Will you tell me if any other has touched you here?” He cupped her and she shook her head, eyes closed against the sight despite trapping desperate tears. 

“No one,” she croaked. “No one.”

He moaned against her hair as t wo fingers dipped into her, and Hermione realized there were places that had been untouched by pain until that moment. It burned as he scissored them, stretching her. “So tight, so hot. How will you break on my cock, hm?” 

His fingers hooked into her tender walls and she squirmed to dislodge them. When his thumb descended on the spot that only she had ever touched, she pleaded, “Please don’t.” 

A long hiss played through her hair and he pulled her against his body. “You are going to destroy my control like this, kitten.” He lowered his lips to her throat and began to bite and suck between words. “I could take you now, or I could continue hurting you. I would delight in either option, but have you learned your lesson?”

Hermione was murmuring, “No, no, no,” her head shaking in denial. He quickened the circles on her clit and licked a stripe up her cheek to taste her tears.

“Mmm. Your body is responding to this, Hermione.” She faced the wall to her right, neck corded with the tightness of her refusal. “It seems to be deciding for you.” When she did not answer, he chuckled and removed wet fingers from her with a horrifying squelch. She tried to drown out the rustling of cloth, but when silken heat brushed against her sex, she began her begging anew. It nudged where her labia joined before dipping back to the slick at her center. A palm scalded over her breast as he wrapped a steely arm around her. “Too late.” The kiss he planted below her ear was tender, lost in the sensation of him thrusting into her, tearing her open.

His length dragged along tender walls, easing back before he plunged further into her. On the third thrust he found her end and her core twinged as he pounded into it, bruising her deep inside. 

Hermione was silent as he forced their hips together; her vocal chords had frozen so that only her lips mouthed the small word. The whisper of breath was smothered by the string of nonsense spilling into her ears. It was indistinguishable, unidentifiable, nothing she could use to anchor herself in, so she was afloat in the terrible sensations of his teeth and his hands and his cock. It was only when his strokes became frantic and the words guttural exclamations that she realized they must be foreign vulgarities.

His hands fluttered on her hips as finally slowed, body fluids trickling like tears down her thighs. The man panted and slumped against her. “So good, _ katyonok _ .” Dolohov trailed fingers over the mix of blood and semen and other things, painting her and humming absently. 

For herself, Hermione was transitioning from terror to exhaustion, her body wrung of every drop of adrenaline, tears, and sweat. She sagged in the heavy iron, wrists raw nerves and shoulders sure to tear from body at any moment. Or so she almost hoped, thinking it may be better to bleed out at this point. She shivered as the misting sweat evaporated, and Dolohov enveloped her.

“My poor little kitten. You must be cold.” The manacles clicked open and she sank into his arms, muscles little more than waves of water to stand upon. He lifted her bridal style. “And tired. We’ll clean you up and get you to bed.” Though already naked and used, vulnerability at the idea of him washing her sent Hermione’s skin to squirm. “Hush, I know. No more games tonight, kitten. You are safe.”

Her head was too heavy to lift, so she could see nothing but the black of his shirt and a strip of his chest where the buttons had been undone as he worked the whip. Her eyes fluttered shut and she let his movement lull her deadened mind. When they opened again, Dolohov had used the edge of the bed to help hold her while he plucked his wand from wherever he’d stored it. The flash of a cleansing spell whipped over her and then he was sliding her beneath the duvet. 

Tender warmth pressed against her forehead as her curls were soothed back from her face. His voice whispered inches between them. “Tomorrow is a new day; all will be as it was before if you are good.” The soft leather of a knuckle stroked down her cheek and then he disappeared from her awareness.

Sleep was a blissful nothingness to embrace, a slice of death while her mind worked in the background, whirling fitfully as it processed the horrors of her day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo that happened. I just felt like writing this more. This fic is a way for me to play around with language more, test some of my weirder word play. It is a specific headspace, but I like it. 
> 
> Anyway, I have not forgotten about Hermione's magic. It's there and it will play a role. Just not yet.


	7. Wake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next morning and passing uneventful days.

She was adrift in her own pounding skull, buffeted by a thrumming pulse at either temple. Had Ron snuck another bottle of whiskey to the tent last night? Ugh, she certainly felt like poison had flooded her veins and wrung her muscles dry. She allowed the barest sliver of the world through one shuttered eye and slapped her forearm over her face in agony.

“Ronald Weasley, I --” Dry cracks popped in her throat as she groaned, and she winced, rubbing at the battered length of neck. Her body stiffened and triggered magnitudes of pain to sweep through her. The jumping muscle at her jaw stabbed into her head, burning skin against the sheets radiated through her, and there was an ache in her core as though she’d been cleansed with sand. 

This was not the tent. This was not Grimmauld. It was not the Burrow or Shell Cottage nor anywhere Hope might still be in the box.

The stone of sorrow rose through her chest and sent a pained sob through her shaking breaths. She could not face this day. Would not. 

Hermione curled onto her side, an arm hugging her knees, and tried to will away reality to no avail. She could not even fall asleep again. There was nothing for it but to open her eyes and see if the world had changed with her.

There was a pale blue gown hanging at one poster of the bed a mere foot from her face. Its message was clear: come to breakfast or face the consequences. While the Gryffindor in the corner of her mind sought to scream over the wall she’d built that she should stay in bed, consequences be damned, the fire in her belly had been doused and smothered. 

It was with winces and careful breaths that she pushed herself up and tugged the blessedly soft, light, cool blue silk over her head to tumble just above her feet. It was a little loose as well, and she wondered if it had been chosen with her condition in mind. Hermione hadn’t the energy to search for undergarments or house slippers, nor to wash despite the lingering putridity she imagined tainted her, so she fumbled out to the dining room a mess of purple and red and brown beneath the unruffled dress.

Ever the gentleman, Dolohov stood at her entrance and had her chair back for her, sitting only once she’d managed to perch upon the edge of her own seat, hissing as the sting notified her that the area was not free of marks. Was any part of her? Would she ever be again? She lived here at the sufferance of a self-professed sadist. So long as she stayed alive and sane, from what she gathered he was free to do with her as he wished. 

A soft cough sent shockwaves of ache as she looked up. Her captor nodded toward her water goblet, raising one admonishing brow. When she followed his gaze, her own dark brows furrowed together. There was a crystal potion bottle that sparkled a familiar bloody red in the morning light. How she’d not noticed the cheery pink refractions even as they danced against her skin Hermione had no idea. Her gaze skittered to the man and back to the potion. He’d said he would not heal her when punished, hadn’t he?

“I am not needlessly cruel, Miss Granger.” He set his teacup aside and returned her curious amber gaze with cool silver. “And while last night may have been a rough introduction, as I told you when I laid you down for sleep, today is a new day. I am willing to move forward as before if you behave.”

Her eyes narrowed and curiosity prickled at her chest. “Why?” The word was croaked before she could help it, cheeks coloring and sudden fear rearing in her stomach. 

She needn’t have worried. Dolohov chuckled softly and leaned back in his seat. “You are young. Eighteen?” She nodded hesitantly. “Nearly a child. And growing in wartime is an odd thing. One is often both more mature and less than one’s peers. Your inexperienced, for instance.” She was uncomfortably hot at this line. “No doubt you had more pressing matters to attend while your classmates were overblown with hormones and dramas. You are supposed to be a clever girl, Miss Granger. I expect you to accept my generosity when you receive it.”

He was right. It was an unpleasant truth of her new situation, but she nodded and took up the potion, downing it in long gulps to be rid of the thick, metallic taste before her stomach could revolt. It lingered on the tongue even after she drank down half the cool water in her cup. 

It did not heal everything despite the immense warmth followed by a wave of relief that suffused her, but it was enough. The cuts would be shut and shiny and pink, the ache in her core was closer to the better known cramps and thus easily ignored in favor of breakfast.

What it could not do was dismantle the flashes of memory at every glimpse of her battered flesh, every movement of the magnetic cruelty beside her. When Dolohov moved to pour her tea, an after mealtime ritual, she flinched back so the legs of her chair rocked, tears flooding beneath clenched lids.

The air was lightning thick and the muffled clunk of the teapot settled back in place felt hesitant. And then buttery warm leather enveloped the hand with a death grip on her napkin. When she tried to pull away, his hand held her fast, thumb stroking the line of her wrist. “Hermione.” His words stirred too closely; he must have risen from his seat. “I meant what I said; you have seen the consequences of disobedience now, and you can work to avoid it. I will assist you as I’m able.” Calloused fingertips turned her jaw to him and she reluctantly opened her eyes, releasing the now-cold tears from their confines. But she stared past him, to the glinting morning sun that mocked her with its promise.

Again his words pricked at the logical portion of her brain; he had warned her about angering him and she had allowed her repulsion of Lestrange to override avoiding it. There was another truth, though, that washed over her in cool terror. “But you’ll still hurt me.”

Dolohov further tipped her chin to study her shining wet eyes. “Yes. But it will not be as-- as brutal as it was last night. And I will ensure you are healed and cared for as necessary before you sleep.” His red tongue flicked in her peripheral. “And I can provide pleasure in turn. Willing lovers, whether they decided to repeat the experience or not, have never complained about a lack of release. Not at the end.” His voice lilted with amusement.

“I don’t want it.” She jerked against the cupping of her jaw, but his thumb and forefinger were the jaws of a vice. 

“We discussed this before; I will do what I must either way., but I will try to be delicate about breaking you in.” His pupils had swallowed the grey of his eyes, the abyss staring hungrily into her. “It will be more difficult to reign in my lust now that I have tasted you, but I will try.” The fond stroke of his fingers lingering on her cheek roiled her stomach. “You do not know how lovely you are, kitten, writhing in pain for me. But before you think to be all self-righteous again, I will offer you one last warning; last night was not my worst. Not close to it. Do you understand?”

Her “yes” was a dry, stony whisper. 

The abyss roved her consideringly for a moment. “We shall see. You are dismissed.”

It took all within her not to dive into her bedroom and instead walk and school herself to a semblance of composition. It lasted as she passed through the door, then next, and even as steam rose amid the waterfall from the tap. When she sloughed off the dress and caught a kaleidoscope of color, she could not help but take inventory of herself. And as horrifying as the line down the front of her was, her back… Doubtless she would wear the stripes resultant for the rest of her life. More scars for her growing collection. She allowed herself to crack along those ridges as she slipped into the searing water.

Although a Death Eater, Dolohov was seemingly a man of his word. He did not abuse her, did not fondle her, hardly spoke a harsh word to her as days passed. He did touch her though, mostly small motions like a hand on her back to guide her, a stroke of her cheek to show affection. She felt like a dog, and that line of thinking always hearkened back to the night Lestrange had called. She was a pet being trained, her supposed master attempting to accustom her to his hand. 

The days were so uniform they flowed into one another, and it was only when Dolohov informed her he would leave the manor for the evening before dinner and she would have freedom to roam the common areas as she wished that Hermione had an inkling that more than a week had passed since the evening in his dungeon. 

“Where--” she began, but seamed her lips and counselled herself before she could finish.

Dolohov arched a brow, but his voice was more amused than admonishing and she released the valve holding in her breath at the tone. “It is the weekly meeting. As it was last week and will be the following.”

She’d been confined to her room then and wondered that she was now allowed out while he was not present. “Oh.”  
  


“I have locked and warded anywhere off limits. You will find no weapons, no wands, no magical items that would assist you in the death of either of us, nor any that would aid you in escape. Tippy is still here and will report to me should you misbehave.”

“I understand,” she murmured to her plate. 

The press of skin ran a line from write to middle finger. “Good girl. You are dismissed once you’ve finished your tea.”

When Tippy called her to dinner that evening she sat at her customary spot and picked at the brown fowl on her plate, nibbled a roll and plucked through her vegetables until she’d had enough of it that Tippy would be satisfied. It was eerie to sit alone at the table, but she did not miss the withering looks as she ate too little, or the inane repetition pleasantries. Hermione hesitated to “finish” her meal and leave the table, but as the gravy congealed she decided that had to do and crept from the dining room. 

The door to the den would not turn for her though she had been with him in that room several times before and could not think why. Parallel to it were double doors with ornate brass handles. When she tried one the creak of the hinge grated like gravel against her nape. The door edged into the room and Hermione could make out the one place she had secretly wished to find nearly as much as an escape route. Shelves and shelves and shelves of books stretched across the walls, neatly organized on dark wood lines. As she’d opened the door a fire crackled on the opposite wall, hearth blazing to bathe the room in a golden wash. All thought of exploration spilled from her agape mouth as she closed the door behind her with a solemn click. 

She had never been inside a home with so many books before, and Hermione’s heart danced across her ribs at the cornucopia before her. She was stroking their spines and mouthing titles before she could think of the dangers of possible curses. It was too much of a feast when she had been cast into mere existence so long, and she could not help but want to swallow down the tantalizing fruit dangling just within reach.

Hermione wandered down the path of books in a temporal suspension, each breath swallowed greedily through her nose to appreciate the delicate waft of parchment and vellum and leather tumbled through with fire. In moments her feet stilled she might pluck a book from the shelves on a whim just to crack open the binding and drink in the delicious sweet scent of a book older than her life.

She would thumb a few pages and sometimes return to skim the table of contents, and several times she paused to take a sampling of the text. Invariably another caught the corner of her eye and she would amble on. And then she chase upon something of a Grail: _Arithmantic Theory Revised: A study of ancient arthimancers’ work as viewed through a modern lens._

“Modern” might be a misnomer now as the book had been written in the eighteen hundreds, but little had changed in the last hundred and a half years since its first-and-only publication. And now she had a copy she could read. The floor softened beneath her feet as she crossed to the little seating area of chairs around a small couch. It was onto this she sank, soaking in the erudite prose as even as her legs curled beneath her. 

Time spent reading is like time spent in a dimension running parallel to reality. It can be a slog through theory thick as syrup or months condensed in the flash of a sentence. Hermione had spent hours with some books without realizing, others whistling and calling to no avail and her hunger scraping at her sides. She had sped through others and been astounded that not even a single hour had passed. Then, of course, she’d had to find another to similarly consume.

 _Arithmantic Theory Revised_ was a meaty book, each paragraph full of explanation, each chapter a book unto itself. She could lose herself in this book for multiple reads and planned to do just that. Her only regret was that she had no parchment to write upon nor ink and quill to write; she would love to follow along these ancient equations.

The first hundred pages were mostly background. And she knew quite a bit of the history of Arithmancy, so it was almost review, though with bites of new flavor slipped throughout. 

She changed position as needed, no thought given as her body moved independently to find comfort while her mind spooned through the text. Hermione was on her back, gown pooled around the base of her thighs and head tilted by one ornate pillow while another propped the book up for her. Her head spun with calculations and theory, and she felt she’d tumbled through the mirror and was engaged in a game with a walking castle of knowledge. Her mind would be spinning away all night at this rate.

Then a slide of warmth trailed from knee to upper thigh and she was violently expelled from the world of clean, playful numbers and back to Dolohov’s library where she was lying on his golden threaded couch and the dark man himself half sat on the edge by her feet while his hand glided over her skin.

The book collapsed to her chest and Hermione tugged her legs toward her core, but the weight of his palm leadened. “I knew I would find you here.” The words traced goosebumps over her skin to mirror his hand. 

Hermione shuffled the book closed and pulled her skirt over herself, though Dolohov did not move his hand, so one leg remained bare. “I- I should get to bed.”

“Hmm.” He trailed to her inner thigh and the little hairs there tickled. “You won’t ask how my evening was?”

“Erm, well.” She cast for any possible excuse. “I thought you might want me to be sleeping by now.”

He leaned toward her, arm propped against the back cushion so she was trapped. “On the contrary, I am glad to spend more time with you this evening.” The spice of his scent overwhelmed the comforting perfume of books, cloying on her tongue. “I was asked about you, you know. Rodolphus told Bellatrix all about your little outburst, and then it seemed everyone had something to say.”

Though her eyes danced over the surrounding room she could find no escape. “Oh?”

“Yes.” The hand bracing him was sliding to her now, treading up her side, skimming her collar. “You’re a highly desirable commodity. Harry Potter’s mudblood, brightest witch of her age, little survivor who slipped through both my fingers and those of Bellatrix Lestrange. We’ve heard stories about you, kitten.” He brushed a wild curl behind her ear, leaning in. “Snape often dismissed you as a parroting little know-it-all, but you are so much more than that.”

“I’m not,” she insisted as she prayed to melt into the cushions.

He rose over her, rough hand placing her to create space for him to straddle her dwarfed form. “I disagree.” His breath was hot and reminiscent of cinnamon. “Clever enough to keep two hot-headed teenagers from destroying themselves time and again. Strong enough to endure torture and maintain your secrets.” His lips whispered against her forehead now and she couldn’t move, could hardly breathe as he pinned her. “Solving riddles and maintaining the highest grades all the while you keep your little friends afloat. Slytherin’s monster, fighting the Umbridge bitch and outwitting her at every turn, and you ensured your boy savior succeeded in his task of destroying the shards of the Dark Lord’s soul.” She was shaking her head, but he only sounded his amusement against her ear. “Oh yes, we know all about you, kitten. As the surviving member of your little trio--”

Hermione tripped into understanding and fell a long way into herself at those words, eyes widened painfully and petrified once more.

“--Yes, your little Weasley friend did not survive his injuries. He was gone before any thought to heal the prisoners. Ah, well. He has plenty of brothers to choose from.” Dolohov shushed gently as he wiped her spilling tears. “I know, kitten, I know. You loved them both, and now they are gone and you are left with me. But I have not finished telling you of my evening.” He tilted her chin to draw her gaze. “The Dark Lord wishes to meet you, the mudblood who kept the Boy Who Lived alive long enough to die as a lamb for slaughter.” She fought the burbling sobs until she choked on them, tears and snot and spittle overflowing as the last of her hope was dashed against the rocks and disappeared in a wave of despair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm just on a roll with this story right now. If this keeps up, I don't know much I'll churn out before I finally sputter. But! I'm enjoying it. I still plan on working on my other stuff, just feel like this one for the moment.


	8. Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione looks into the eyes of a monster.

She was being swallowed up by cruel, demanding lips eating at her own, tongue coaxing out each little whimper, one large hand netting her in place. The thumb at the joinder of her jaw drew sweet circles, fingertips pressed bruises into the meat of her neck. Her thoughts were a muddle, oxygen-deprived spool taut between the hungry mouth and possessive grip. As chokingly trapped as her caged heart beat it was a thready rope in the torrent of her grief. 

Hips rolled against her, burning through the layers sheltering her from flesh-on-flesh. The solid hardness had wormed between her thighs, one foot arched to the floor and the other helpless over the cushioned back of the seat. Her front chilled as air swirled around her bared breasts, the wet tear of cloth registering after to her mind, and then her lips were freed and mouth and tongue and teeth trailed down her throat and further. He engulfed half of one breast, teeth gnashing until she arched into him with a cry. It was too much and she was wheeling in sensation. The tongue soothed over roughened skin, then he was sucking at her nipple, her hands fluttering like dragonflies against his shoulders, but he was immovable as stone. 

She wrapped her fingers in black spider-silk curls and tugged, but the Death Eater groaned appreciatively and molded himself to her. 

“Please.” 

Black eyes rolled up to her tear-stained face and she could read the drugged pleasure in his gaze. The hand not pinning her pulse traversed to her free breast, plucking and kneading in turns that plunged her head beneath dizzying waves.

She could feel her pulse rebelling against the pad of his thumb and wondered how this beast had been drawn by her sorrow. Her palms began swatting at him, her breath spluttering, whines wheezing airily around them until Dolohov wrenched his mouth from her with a sickening pop. One manacled hand swept over her wrists and pinned them beside her head. His thumb stroked her pulse and he stared at her with that eagle sharp gaze.

“Hermione.” She’d scrunched her face, lashes tangled and nose wrinkled, but he dug into the thread of her vein and she snapped to him. “You know better than that.”

A fine tremble washed through her. “I’ve tried-- please. I…” Choking sobs wracked her again and the man knelt up over her.

“Shush, sweet girl, shush.” The steel at her throat turned to living silk and stroked gently over her skin. “I pushed too hard. Your grief was intoxicating.” When her shaking did not subside, he slipped off her and instead tugged and smoothed until she was against his chest, knees pressed together across his lap. “Sh. I know. I’ve stopped now, kitten.” He tangled through her hair, fingers working through knots. Sobs subsided into coughs and heavy warm circles soothed over her lap. Gentle rocking and soft, unfamiliar words laced the air. 

When her tears were only salt crusting her lashes, Hermione slowly floated back to herself. “Why are you comforting me?”

The solid man beneath her hummed and pressed a kiss to her temple. “I told you I would be kind as long as you were good. I took advantage before you were ready and that is why you acted out. A man cannot expect an untrained crup to accept affection whilst under duress.”

He was back to pet training metaphors, though the prickle of irritation was greatly lessened by numbness of grief settling in her. 

“You must be tired, sweet girl. Shall I take you to bed?” When her chin jolted up he chuckled. “To your bed, kitten. Alone. Though I would never turn down the invitation to join you if you wish it.” She rocked as he rose and carried her up to her room, tucking her in bed like she was still a child. His weight dipped the bed beside her, calluses brushing against red cheeks and smoothing away stray curls.

She was too exhausted to push him away, to rebel against the affection, and a worm in her gut told her perhaps he would keep his word and leave her be. For the moment, eyes drifting shut and the world spiraling to the dissociation of sleep, it was comforting. She felt almost safe.

Hermione almost forgot about that night; she was becoming more skilled at locking away distress. Sometimes in the mornings (or the night; it was hard to tell in the darkness of the dusty room) she would wake doused and sweat and swallowing screams. She would claw her way to the ensuite and shatter on the cool tile floor before sloughing the memories from the surface and shelving them along the back of her mind until it was safe to page through and process them. 

When Dolohov halted her before she left the lunch table one afternoon it took every thimble of self control not to collapse to the floor. 

“You will need change before we leave this evening,” the man said as his tea cup clinked against its matching saucer. “Topsy will provide you with appropriate dress.”

She turned toward him on sluggish legs. “Where are we going?”

Dolohov peered archly at her. “Malfoy Manor. It is where the Dark Lord is headquartered until his own fortress is prepared.”

The strings of composure snapped, hands flying out to balance the suddenly unsteady world. 

“Well?” If the Death Eater noted her sudden upheaval, he did not react. “Go before I take it on myself to prepare you.”

That darted through her shaking thoughts and she nodded, walking on until she could fall onto her bed. Voldemort wanted to meet her, the Dark Lord himself. She had destroyed one of his precious Horcruxes with her own hands and featured greatly in the murder of the others. Murder, yes, because what else could the obliteration of a soul be named? While it may have been only a soul _fraction_ , one could not commit a fraction of a murder. Could they?

What did he want? Dolohov had said he wished to meet her because she had helped Harry stay alive and fight, but so hard Ron, the rest of the Weasleys, every member of the Order of the Phoenix and Dumbledore’s Army. And if he thought her so instrumental to his enemies, surely he’d want her dead?

The idea should have lanced her through fear, but she had crossed the threshold into logic mode at some point and was instead staring into the facts as though it were a puzzle. Again, she mourned the lack of note taking gear. If she could assign the knowledge she knew numerical values and settle on what calculations to run, perhaps she could deduct an Arithmantic answer to her questions. Alas, such an equation would be elephantine in nature; the sheer number of variables would take a sheaf of parchment alone, and that was only with the knowledge filed in her own head. There must be hundreds more she could not know.

She stripped, bathed, lotioned, detangled, all while assigning value to what she knew and comparing them against the other assumptions to logic her way through. It was a distraction, but necessary. So lost in the tumble of letters and numbers in her head was she that Hermione didn’t notice Tippy’s entrance until her curls spun into dryness around her shoulders.

“Oh. Er, thank you.”

The elf nodded and gestured toward the vanity. “Missy will sit so Tippy can fix her hair and makeup.” A slash of scarlet bisected the duvet, but Hermione had no chance to study it as the little stool butted against the back of her legs and swept her before the mirror. Tippy stood now on the dark varnished surface, eyes narrowed to the size of a slice of orange, then clicked her fingers. Hermione’s hair snaked and smoothed around her. Another snap had her face layered and dabbed until she wore a faint mask. Behind the elf she traced the fishtail brain holding her curls back from her face, flicked to the blushed cheeks and crimson painted mouth. 

“Why am I being dolled up exactly?” she inquired with the lift of one darkened, shaped brow.

The elf shook her head, long ears swaying in the self-contained breeze. “Missy is attending a Malfoy Manor dinner with the Master. Master lets Missy wear day robes at home, but the Malfoys is sticklers for tradition. Missy must not embarrass the Master.”

“O-kay,” she allowed, swatting back the vague annoyance of doing anything because of the Malfoys. “I won’t be wearing heels, will I? I can’t walk in those things.”

“No, Missy will have slippers.” Tippy flicked her fingers to gesture the girl to stand. “Now Missy will get dressed. Tippy knows Missy dresses herself, but Tippy is here if needed.”

The gown was silk, like nearly every other dress she’d warn since coming to this place, and Hermione wondered if Dolohov had a penchant for it. A strange thought, considering he typically wore cotton or wool. The knickers matched, though were additionally trimmed with ivory lace that set her eyes to bulge. Regardless, she slipped into them before pulling the gown overhead. While Hermione had not been provided a bra in some time, the deep scoop of the neckline would have prevented it in this case. Her breasts pressed against the lightly ruched material, their silhouette fortunately obscured enough she felt they were not on display. The ruching culminated at her waist before the gown hugged her hips and swept down to the floor. Long sleeves wrapped around her forearms, but they were otherwise loose and slit down the back. It would disguise her vulgar scar, but frame her flesh within it. 

And mindful of scars, Hermione gazed down to follow the paler line that began on her chest. Dolohov’s mark on her. She doubted it was accidental that the scar gifted her by Bellatrix Lestrange was out of sight while his own would be displayed in such bold fashion. He was enamored of the keloid tissue, his eyes dropping to it when any part of it was in view, and there was a vaguely dirty churn to her stomach at the idea that he wished to display it to others. 

The slippers Tippy Summoned were soft woven gold, thin enough she could feel the coolness of the floor as she stepped into the hall. A door down from hers squealed shut and she snapped around, one arm flung across the wall and the other searching for her wand. Hermione hadn’t known Dolohov’s room was so near hers, though there were only so many options.

He stilled mid-stride and, despite the deeply cast shadows in the dim corridor, she could feel his eyes drinking her in before lighting on the scar to linger. “Lovely.” He was in unrelieved black, a default unless he, for whatever reason, was trying to seem disarming. 

Then he usually defaulted to blue, decidedly unusual for a probable Slytherin.

“Yes, well.” She shuffled demurely, cheeks blazing beneath the powder. “I am worried it may get dirty brushing against the floor like this.”

His hand flashed pale in the darkness and the gleam of silk at her feet fluttered. “There.” Leather whispered over polished wood and his shadow blocked the lamp behind him, casting her in the shadowed blanket of his presence. Hot fingertips skimmed down the line of one arm. “I will apparate us there if you’re ready.”

She would never be ready, evidenced by the sharp jolt of her heart behind this man’s scar. She nodded regardless, staring down at their feet.

Dolohov enveloped her and she took in the forest of his scent, turned earth and fallen leaves and a hint of something spiced that hearkened to the firewhiskey he enjoyed. She couldn’t differentiate between the tight embrace of his arms and the squeeze of apparition, but both fell away as hard marble spun to being beneath them. 

Before she could step away, his grip flashed to hold her jaw and he bored into her eyes. “If you misbehave tonight I may not be able to keep you alive. Do not bait the Dark Lord; any other I may claim the right to punish you, but I cannot shield you from him. Do _not_ provoke him.”

Hermione felt as though she were watching the telly suddenly, the surreality of a Death Eater warning her not to anger Voldemort tipping the world off its axis. She frowned and murmured, “Of course.” 

Grey eyes darted over her face before he seemed satisfied enough to nod and release her from his iron grip. He wrapped her arm through his own to escort her through the halls and Hermione reluctantly took in her surroundings.

White marble, austere architecture. Wall lamps with steady magical fire eliminated the velvet shadows she’d expected, bathing the room instead in pale gold reminiscent of fluorescent, but perhaps more flattering. The walls shone enough to reflect a hint of red from her gown, and paintings along the wall from the entrance hall to wherever they were going gossiped quietly amongst themselves. It only just relieved her when they passed by the doors that haunted her and continued to pass into a vast dining hall. The collonaded walls were parted by a fireplace wider than she was tall and taller than she-- well, was tall. Chandeliers dripped crystalline flickers across the black table, the fine Oriental rug, the dark floor. 

She wondered if the rug was wizard made, as she was unfamiliar with wizarding decor but guessed the Malfoy family might prefer it to anything sullied by muggle hands. This was her preferred line of thought as Dolohov laid a hand on her lower back to guide her forward.

The room had either fallen silent at their approach or had been that way to start, and she did not know which prospect was worse. Hermione heard a whisper, a chuckle, the bated giggle of Bellatrix Lestrange’s delight. They passed a row of seats along one side of the long black table and Hermione struggled with each lift of her feet. These were the cream of the Death Eaters, those a part of Voldemort’s inner circle, murderers and rapists, genocidal sycophants. She trained her gaze ahead a few steps and toward the floor, only her peripherals catching the turning of heads and the relative shades of hair; when she passed three light heads she knew that must be the Malfoys, relegated toward the center of the table at their own home.

She would not look. She could not look. Her breath might fail her if she did. Her heart nearly tore as a little voice whispered, “Muddy,” at her. She knew that word in that voice, would know it hissed through the crowd at Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. Her scar thrummed against its silken container in the woman’s presence.

And then she froze.

Since her Sorting Hermione had worn the title ‘Gryffindor’ with all the pride intended by its founder. She was, whatever those who deemed her too clever might say, a lion to her marrow. Knowledge was wonderful, but anyone could read a book or learn a spell. Putting that spell into action when it mattered was far more important. Had she hesitated to silence Dolohov at the Ministry, she would not have survived his curse. She could have been swallowed by the dragon under Gringotts, murdered by Professor Lupin in third year. 

Perhaps she could have saved Harry if only…

But here, in this moment, blood icy as it coursed through her heart, Hermione may well have been a mouse. That was the effect of standing before Lord Voldemort.

Her body sunk under the guidance of the Death Eater at her side. He pulled her to her knees as he made his own obeisance, and Hermione was staring at the thick abyss of the Dark Lords robes. 

“Rise, Antonin, please.” His voice was that strange soft, commanding slither she remembered from the battle. “And what have we here?”

She could not have stood even had Dolohov not pressed her shoulder in warning. If it were possible to will oneself away, she’d have melted into the black marble. Only her knees against the hard floor, thin silk the barest shield, and the rushing march of blood in her ears let Hermione know that she indeed had not become stone. 

She did not hear Dolohov respond, but that voice as silken as her gown snaked through her petrification. “Stand, Miss Granger. Let us get a look of Harry Potter’s beloved mudblood.” She rose through a haze of flat terror, her hand mindlessly bracing on Dolohov’s proffered forearm as her feet shakily took root beneath her. “Look at me, girl. It is impolite not to make eye contact during a conversation.”

Cotton dryness clove her tongue to the roof of her mouth. As her eyes dragged upward until the black ceded to skin whiter than the marble walls. It was stretched drum-tight over his skull, cheekbones sharp as they tilted between ears toward the space where mere slits served in place of nostrils. But the gleam of scale-patterned flesh and the skeletal thinness of him were not what horrified her; it was the scarlet shine of reptile eyes in a nearly human face. They cut through her mind like tissue paper, her every thought surely written in their oaken depths clearly as print across a book. 

_Tom Riddle was an excellent pupil,_ came a foolish, unbidden thought. She’d seen a picture of him once and this was not Tom Riddle. He had made himself anew and resembled the handsome boy as nearly as Hermione resembled a true lion.

The line of his mouth bared milky teeth as he studied her from his seat with the mien of a king. “I was,” he intoned. “I have. And I do not.”

The stitches of thought unravelled as she worked through the meaning of his words. She fairly swam, blood draining to her toes, and the shark smile widened. Dolohov wound an arm around her waist, anchoring her in place.

“You clean-up well, little mudblood. “ The weight of his eyes shifted. “Sit, Antonin. We have dinner to partake of before the festivities.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have another chapter written after this one; I'd like to write more today as well, but I had a root canal soooooo. Who know.


	9. Dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of the evening at Malfoy Manor.

The Death Eater sat beside a too-familiar face and Hermione had to catch herself from crying out. The fear of seconds before had fled, replaced with the cold seethe of betrayal. Severus Snape, traitor, spy, murderer of Albus Dumbledore. As Dolohov swept into the high-backed dining chair she stood to the side and a little behind, fire lighting behind her bronze eyes. Had he deigned to look her way the knife of her hate would hopefully have slashed his throat so he could bleed out like the treacherous snake he was.

Alas, when Dolohov blocked her sight of the horrid man, he was still breathing. Her dark captor considered her and patted his thigh in what she belatedly realized was invitation.

“What?”

“There is no seat available for you, kitten.”

Mechanical glances proved him right, as Thorfinn Rowle took up the space at his other side. “I could sit against--” Her words failed as the bar of his arm wrapped around her waist and swept her into the place he’d deemed most appropriate. 

“A mudblood at the table, Dolly?” 

The heated response whirled against her ear. “She is my pet and this is where I prefer her at the moment.”

Bellatrix touched a long white finger to lips plush as ripe fruit. “I wasn’t aware we let animals eat with us. Lucius, you’d better call your dogs. It is time for supper.”

“Bella.” The world stilled at the soft intonation. “Miss Granger is an invited guest. Let us make an exception for her this once.”

A harumph was the pouty witch’s response, but she allowed the matter to sink back into unspokeness for the moment.

It was a maddening dilemma. Hermione could allow the humiliation to nettle her into fury, but she would face the consequences. If Voldemort himself did not have her dance under his Cruciatus, Dolohov’s wrath would pale her previous experience, of that she had no doubt. But it truly was galling, to perch upon the lap of this man in a room of her peers, peers who would all approve of anything that brought her low. As courses appeared on the table, she did not have access to food of her own. Instead Dolohov brought steaming mouthfuls of his soup to her lips or tore fingerfuls of cotton-soft rolls for her teeth to pluck. Each bite sent spiny resentment curling through her. The one time she attempted autonomy her hand was gripped so tight her pinky smashed against her thumb. Dolohov then cupped the goblet of wine to her lips. She had reached for water, but he began to tip the drink and a droplet escaped the rim as she opened for the bitter red. He drained the whole cup into her throat and her eyes burned along with her cheeks.

That happened twice more and the heady wine seeped through what little food she’d eaten from the Death Eater’s hand until the world took on that soft, off-center sheen of subtle drunkenness. It became easier to lift her eyes from the table and study the others at the table. Narcissa Malfoy was distinctly uncomfortable, Lucius Malfoy only slightly less so, and Draco seemed torn. Between what extremes she could not say.

Rowle met her flicker with a grin as his eyes trailed from her dangling feet up her body. Ants crawled over her skin at the sensation and she rubbed at the gooseflesh on one arm, causing the man behind her to hold her more tightly.

Bellatrix Lestrange ran her tongue down the knife she’d used to cut her meat and winked while her husband and his brother (she guessed from the fair resemblance) both skimmed her without veiling their beastly thoughts.

The only direction Hermione did not turn was toward the head of the table (which also kept her from lingering on her former professor. It became more difficult as dessert finished and the long table vanished with it. Her dizzy hands crushed Dolohov’s sleeve where he’d draped his arm on her lap; the world had started shifting in truth. The Death Eater’s amusement rumbled through her, handling her as he transfigured his chair into something akin to his preferred seat at home. “Easy, kitten.” Large hands maneuvered as easily as if she were indeed a teacup sized cat. Her back was tucked in the space between his chest and left arm so she faced inward and toward the center of the little circle that had formed around the Dark Lord. His legs framed her own, and he slipped his fingers into a slit she hadn’t noticed. Was it more transfiguration or was Hermione too distant from her reality to note every detail? Either prospect further unsettled her. 

“Narcissa, dear, you are excused. I know your distaste for Death Eater games.” When the woman’s lips parted, the sinuous voice picked up again. “No need to make excuses. You are delicate, a veritable flower of a pureblooded woman. Indeed, perhaps the other ladies should join you.” Hope sparked before Hermione reminded herself she would not be among their number.

“My lord.” Bellatrix’s whine was a high trill. “You know I  _ love _ to play.”

Laughter slithered drily over her skin. “Now, Bella, you had your chance to play with the mudblood-- yes, your lord can see why you want to stay. I won’t deny that I would delight to see you carve more pretty scars into her, but I know how Antonin is loath to share what’s his. I won’t have you pouting all night when you’re denied.”

Fingers danced in circles over her skin, an attempt at comfort in light of the less than thrilling news that Bellatrix Lestrange was still gagging to torture her.

Large, liquid black eyes batted across the room at Hermione as the woman pouted. That such a terrifying woman could look like a porcelain doll from afar was proof enough that the outside was no indication of what stirred beneath the surface. “Fine.” The word arched as Bellatrix stood. “Roddy will tell me all about it later.”

The double doors swung shut and clicked as the lock engaged. Hermione tugged at the netting of her consciousness, trying to slip it back to safety. The pike fish surrounding her would scent blood soon enough, and she was well aware she was the only spot of red in their sea.

“Lucius. Brandy?” 

“Of course, my lord.” The pop of a house elf startled her and Dolohov’s fingertips pressed against the meat of her thigh. She was better prepared when it disapparated and returned with a tray of tumblers and a bottle of Ogden’s finest. Cut crystal with fingers of whiskey levitated to each man and the familiar waft swirled from the hand at her side. 

As the men around her devolved into separate conversations Hermione had a flight of courage enough to murmur to her captor, “I don’t suppose you’d Summon me a chair for myself?”

His lips quirked, gleaming wetly in her view. “And lose the delightful press of your body against mine? No.” At her frown, he raised his glass to her lips. “Relax, kitten. All is going well.”

All did not feel well. She pushed away the tumbler as gently as her heady state could allow. “I think three glasses of wine are more than enough.” She’d rarely indulged and was currently on that golden edge between just enough that the world felt sharper and softer all at once and true drunkenness. 

Dolohov scratched his cheek against her hair, the prickles of his five o’clock shadow loosening little hairs from her braid. “How do you feel?”

Warm. Not steaming hot, but just the comfortable warmth that leant itself to languidity. There was also a keen awareness of her body, the brush of fingers on her thigh raising little hairs, the silken material of her gown sliding at every movement. “Well enough,” she settled on, but the glint in his iron eyes told her he read more than she’d like.

“A sip then. We will keep you like this.” The weight of his sleeve hushed against her side as he lifted the glass once more, allowing the hard edge to brush over her chest.

“I admit I did not expect you to have tamed the little mudblood so soon, Antonin.” Voldemort’s voice scissored through the glowing tension she’d hardly noticed surrounding her. “After all, she is supposedly a lion.”

Dolohov tightened his hold as she became a statue. “Miss Granger is a clever girl; she knows obedience will best serve her. Isn’t that right, kitten?” Her rough nod sufficed and kissed her temple. 

“Ah, yes. What is it that wolf called her? The one Dumbledore collared and allowed to teach.”

The depth of her old professor’s voice seeped to her marrow. “The brightest witch of her age.” Clipped, disinterested words.

Cobwebs of attention seemed to cling to her, each sticky strand shot from another set of eyes until she was cocooned in smothering consideration. She hardly dared breathe.

“And what is your assessment? You taught the girl for six years. I trust you have some idea of her capabilities.”

Dolohov swigged the whiskey before tipping it to her lips again. “I believe I heard you say she was ‘an insufferable know-it-all’, though I’ve yet to find anything about her suffering. To myself.”

There was muffled laughter that burned her ears in tandem with the alcohol burning down her throat.

“Miss Granger is a veritable fount of information. She came to every class ready to quote her textbooks backward and forward at the start of the term. She was...” Snape eased into a dramatic pause, “passable in Potions.”

A scowl hissed across her face at that. Passable? She could have taught every class by the end of her sixth year. She’s received an Outstanding every year despite Snape’s clear disdain for Gryffindors as a whole and her especially, best friend of Harry Potter and muggleborn. And achieved an easy Outstanding on her OWL as well. 

“It seems the mudblood disagrees with your assessment, Severus.” Heat flushed to her chest and she jerked her head closer to Dolohov to slough the Dark Lord’s notice. 

“No doubt.”

The room was silent enough she could hear the drumming of fingers against the arm of a chair. When she peered through her lashes she saw it was from Voldemort herself. “Draco. Surely you have something to say on the matter. Didn’t Miss Granger consistently best you?”

Her neck nearly snapped as she turned to the pale boy. Blood had drained his face, leaving him the color of the column behind him. “She did, my lord.”

“And?”

Stony fear bobbed in his throat. “Granger’s smart. She-- er-- always managed to get Potter and Weasley out of trouble, and probably was the only reason they passed most of their classes.” His brows were furrowed as he caught her eye, lips twisting in an unrecognizable expression before he dropped his gaze. “Most of the teachers seemed to think she was brilliant.”

“Brilliant.” The word took on sibilance as it flitted from the boy’s mouth to the monster’s. “Why then were you not in Ravenclaw, Miss Granger?”

Still anxious over Draco Malfoy’s unexpected behavior, Hermione did not think before she answered, “Because I’m not a coward.”

Indrawn hisses seethed through the room. “Implying that most Ravenclaws are?” There was a knife edge hidden in the vile wizard’s question.

"No. Just that I--”  _ Think, Hermione, you utter moron.  _ “I pride myself on not being one. Books and cleverness are well and good, but there are more important things.” Harry’s lopsided smile flashed through her mind and she looked down at her hands curled helplessly in her lap. 

“And yet.” The pause drew every eye to Voldemort, even her unwilling pair. “You are pragmatic enough, according to Antonin, not to try his hand. I would have expected you to be covered in pretty little marks by now.” Not spiderwebs, she decided. Not his gaze. It was something far more sinister. She could feel his red eyes ghosting along her body, lingering on the line of her scar and what lay beneath.

“He had to punish her at least once, my lord.” Hermione had nearly forgotten Rodolphus Lestrange was present, the man so much less frightening when in the vicinity of his master. “The little mudblood slapped me when I was merely trying to touch the scar Bella graced her with.” Worms fair crawled across that scar at his smirk.

"Is that right?”

“It is, my lord.” Dolohov’s hand stroked higher on her thigh. “She has lovely whip lashes that will never leave her flesh as a reminder of the lesson.”

“How does she look writhing under the Cruciatus? Does she compare to a certain frail little doll?” The thickness in his voice was cloyingly sweet. 

The man holding her shifted, the strange safety he’d provided transforming as he thought back to the night of her punishment. “She was beautiful. And her tears taste like lust.”

When his hand roved up her hip, skirting along the laced hem of her undergarment, Hermione pushed at it, the world around her shimmering hotly. “Don’t.” It was the barest whisper. “Please.”

The rim of the tumbler tilted her chin upward and the tears slipped from her eyes as Hermione was forced to meet his gaze. His pupils had swallowed up all but a sliver of grey. “Your pleas will not save you forever, sweet pet.” He traced one tear, entranced as it wet his finger. He removed his hand to the outside of the warm silk and Hermione turned her cheek away from the world as she righted herself.

While he let the subject go, throughout the hour or so afterward Hermione could feel the ruby orbs roving her. Voldemort had seen her fear and the little box into which she’d folded up and packed away her inner Gryffindor was trembling like the  _ Monster Book of Monsters _ for her to unleash it. Cooler logic presided, despite what little balm it was to her humiliation. 

It would not surprise her to find out the sadist caging her enjoyed that element as well. What was humiliation other than wounded dignity?

Voldemort surely enjoyed it; the narcissist she’d deduced throughout battles and tales would relish bringing his enemies low. It was something prominent in the wizarding world’s elite, she thought. The Pureblood families believed themselves superior to her kind, and any evidence to the contrary was a direct threat; humiliation rebalanced the world by placing  _ them  _ at its crest with muggleborns at their heels.

As the gathering dwindled down to a handful (Lucius made his excuses, though Voldemort insisted Draco should stay; the Carrows slipped out with woven fingers), Thorfinn Rowle leaned to murmur not far from Hermione’s ear, “Enjoying being a pampered little pet, mudblood?” 

Her shoulders stiffened at the rumbling voice. 

“I know you wouldn’t look so pretty if it was me what got you. After that little stunt in the muggle world, I owe you. Don’t you think?”

“Leave me alone,” she grit over her shoulder. 

A hungry cat-grin splayed across his face. “A few of us talked about asking the Dark Lord for a chance at you if you survived. We were gonna take turns using our favorite curses on you. You know what I thought about?” The last was low, intimate asd firelight. “I thought about using that sweet little body and then Obliviating the memory away so you had no idea why there was blood between your thighs.”

Her arms curled over her chest to shield herself and the big man chuckled, and it pricked at her pride. “What a favor, to erase the memory of your pathetic performance for me.”

“You little bitch--”

“Is there a problem, Thorfinn?” The two had kept their voices low during the exchange, but the man’s anger had overcome his sense and Dolohov finally took notice.

“Your mudblood bitch was just speaking out of turn,” Rowle spat. 

“Did you provoke him?” the man holding her asked.

“No more than he provoked me.” Voldemort had implied the man was possessive, and Dolohov himself said as much the night Rodolphus Lestrange called. If he knew what Rowle had said, perhaps he’d be lenient.

“What’s this?” The words dropped like a snake through the trees and the three froze as they considered their approach.

“It seems Thorfinn and Miss Granger had a disagreement, my lord.” Dolohov’s palm flattened against her throat to tilt her face toward him. “I was just inquiring about it myself.”

Fingers played over her skin as he waited and Hermione searched for the most careful words. “Rowle told me what he’d like to do to me and I implied it would be a less than stellar event.”

“She said it would be a pathetic performance,” the Viking of a man interjected. 

“Well, the girl has been under the Cruciatus of both Bellatrix and Dolohov. Surely your curses, though strong, could not compare to theirs. Hardly an insult. ” The glimmer in his eyes bespoke Voldemort’s suspicion there was more. “Unless it was not your wandwork she questioned?”

“Not  _ that _ wand.” She could have slapped herself, flinched in readiness for Dolohov to do just that. When there was no blow, no choking hold, nothing of the sort, she cracked her lids to find the Death Eater staring down in thinly veiled amusement. 

When the Dark Lord released an eerie, lilting laugh the other men joined in. “Thorfinn, you cannot threaten rape against a mudblood and not expect it to keep silent, especially not a mouthy little Gryffindor like our Miss Granger.”

“Indeed.” Dolohov cast a sneer of dissatisfaction at his peer. “You should not be speaking to  _ my _ mudblood about what you would like to do to her.” His words dripped venom even Hermione longed to flinch from. His hand slipped from her throat to tangle in her hair, drawing her cheek against the solid heat of his chest. 

“It was a hypothetical, Dolohov.” His voice painted the picture of eyes rolling heavenward. “Discussed before you took the bitch for yourself. You aren’t the only one that owes her.”

“But I am the one who owns her.” The words were taut between them until Dolohov turned to his master. “May I take my leave, my lord? I would like to take my pet to bed.”

“By all mean, Antonin. Go enjoy the remainder of your evening.”

Dolohov swept her up with him as he stood, nodding to Voldemort and murmuring his goodbyes to all.

“I’ll be seeing you soon, Miss Granger.” Voldemort’s voice twined around her as she was carried through the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have two more chapters already written and much more planned which I will be working on today. Also, I'm updating the tags to reflect what's to come.
> 
> I swear I'll get better at responding to comments; know that I appreciate each and every one... I'm just so bent on writing I get caught up currently.


	10. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione falls asleep on the way back to Dolohov's home.
> 
> Dolohov POV. Dark.

She was a pretty little thing, slight as a flower in his arms despite the weeks of coaxing weight onto her slender form. He hadn’t seen her bare since the night of her punishment, but he could see it in the way her hips rounded underneath her dresses, the skin over chest plump enough he couldn’t count every little bump of her ribs. Still delightfully breakable, but with an added softness that made his mouth water.

Antonin shifted her drowsing figure to his chest, flicking down her bed dressing enough to slide his little kitten onto sheets nearly as cashmere soft as her skin. She stirred, toffee-sweet eyes squinting up at him. “Shh,” he hushed, dipping to sit beside her, to run his fingers over her smooth cheek to trail down to that thimble waist. Sleep addled sense let her bat ineffectually, but he only chuckled. 

She was too tempting like this, petal lips parted and doe brows pinched. He fumbled for his wand, boyish impotence cloying his fingers as he muttered the incantation to remove her gown. Hermione, sweet rose, curled in on herself, porcelain frail fingers fluttering over her breasts. 

“Shush, kitten.” He lowered himself beside her, along her, her warmly glowing skin magnetic through his layers. “I’m not going to fuck you tonight.” He smoothed a thumb over her wrinkled brows until her breathing evened again. She’d had too much to drink, a pity for her, but a delight for him. He could view her perfect little form without consequence. Antonin allowed fingers to trail up and down her body, eyes flicking from her skin to her face. Gooseflesh followed his touch. But the line of her lashes was still. 

There was no sight like that of a beautiful woman in vulnerable sleep. It was  _ intimate. _ Antonin had not taken a lover in years, and never one serious. He’d waited decades, intent on being there should the one woman he’d fallen for in his youth change her mind.

_ Trembling cupid’s bow, milky throat, midnight blue eyes filling up with tears. _

He groaned and shook the memory from his head in favor of the living, breathing little doll reposing beside him. Antonin brushed one palm over her little breasts, dusky rose nipples pebbling in the amber firelight. 

She was a goddess like this; wild curls splayed on the autumnal pillows, little breasts rounded so the curves of them were clear lines against her ribcage, limbs just imperfectly posed, suggesting innocence. The line of her stomach led to the sweet indent of her navel, drawing the eye to the swell of hips that set his blood aflame. 

The warm light was kind to her, bathing her in shades of subtle gold and orange, velvet purple shadows hiding depths he regretted not plumbing to their fullest. She would be spring on his tongue, his blossoming deity brought to the underworld for his delight. 

Antonin grew bolder with his touch, plucking and massaging those perfect palmfuls before finally tasting her lips with his own. The sour remnants of bitter wine could not disguise what was deeply her. He sucked each lip individually between his teeth to nip at them until they were swollen and red with his kisses, then he roved down to pay the same obeisance to her nipples.

As his tongue whirled over the flower-soft flesh Antonin could not help but moan against her, his hips seeking the pacific heat of her. He needed more and slung his knees to cage her thighs, then bent over her to continue ravishing her body. His hands clasped her hips and his cock twitched at the smallness of her beneath him. He could wrap his hands around her waist, could smother her little form with his own, could destroy her with one wrong blow.

His mouth came away with an obscene pop, spittle gleaming on her puffy nipple. He needed release. 

Still leering over his little goddess, his sweet lioness, Antonin worked off his belt and loosened buttons until he could release himself. It took every breath of self-control not to part her thighs and dip into her tight cunt. He could see it overlaid like a picture before him, how her doe-y eyes would startle open, mouth forming an O of surprise before pain set in. And it would hurt. 

Antonin stroked his length, brushing his underside against the coarse curls visible between closed thighs. It was not arrogance to say he was not a small man, satisfaction curled like smoke at how he stretched from her apex past the little button of her stomach. Every inch would be a fight between her tender walls and his greater strength.

Guttural sounds spilled from his lips as he jerked himself in earnest, imagining tears shining from her cheeks even as her hips started gyrating unwillingly against him. If she did not enjoy him at the start, well, he had a lifetime to train her. He would strum her clit and learn the patterns of her desire until she writhed beneath him. He would transform her from unwilling victim to eager masochist.

She would learn to beg for it, for  _ him. _ She would be his, every sweet, golden, perfect drop of her. She would gaze at him with all the adoration of a sunflower at noon. She would--

He caught himself, one arm denting the mattress beside her as his seed issued over her smooth stomach. His chest still heaving with effort, Antonin spread it thinly across her. The sight of her gleaming with his spit and cum sparked another twitch from his cock and he laughed, wiping sweaty curls back from his face. He put himself away and gently extricated himself from over her, pulled the blankets to her chest, and brushed his lips across hers. “Soon,” he promised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have another chapter and change written currently, but I hardly slept last night so I don't know if I am going to be writing more today. I'd like to. Anyway, yes, we are going down down down.


	11. Want

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dolohov's patience is thinning.

How bloody much did she drink last night? That’s what Hermione asked herself once her head had stopped pounding enough to think it. She recognized the dull thud accompanied as it was by the sour aftertaste of the fine, bitter red the Malfoys had served. It was a wine hangover.

She’d tossed off her blankets during the night and sweat had doused her and dried to a tacky finish. Had she also kicked off her gown? The length of fiery silk was nowhere in sight, but Tippy was a quick elf and she hadn’t expected to see it.

A shower was the order for the day, and the knot between her shoulder blades eased as steam flowered around her. Her feet stretched to wakefulness at the cool ceramic under the pooling warm water. She stood there for a moment and imagined the water washing her clean as it streamed over her, sluicing away the dirty leers and unseen grit that had stayed with her through the night.

Once heat had seeped into her muscles she took up the soap and flannel, the powdery delicacy of violets blooming in her nose. That and scrubbing at her tender scalp refreshed her so her body did not ache to the point of nausea. 

Tippy had left her an ivy dress today. It scooped down her chest almost as deeply as the gown, and flared around her knees, the sleeves hardly little caps on her shoulders. Hermione was painfully exposed, and searched the room for a robe or a cardigan, anything she could hug over her body, but turned up nothing before she knew she needed to go.

She’d become accustomed to Dolohov’s mannerly mien during meals; he stood as she approached the table, smoothing a hand down his silvery green shirt and wishing her a goodmorning.

“Did you sleep well?”

His eyes glinted needle sharp and she blushed as she lowered herself to her chair. “Er, yes. Decently enough, I suppose.” He lifted a black brow and she added, “I think I had too much wine last night.”

A smile played at the corner of his mouth. “You passed out in my arms before we crossed the threshold of Malfoy Manor.” The warmth underlying his statement lit up her cheeks again. “You looked so sweet when I tucked you in.”

Uneasy tingles flurried down her spine. “I’m sorry?”

He studied her expression before returning to his meal. “Drink your water, kitten, you must be dehydrated.”

Hermione spent the hours between meals sinking into a cushiony chair in the library. Since the night she’d learned of Ron’s death, she’d avoided the longer seat in favor of one she could curl up on with no room for interlopers. It was a little obstacle should the Death Eater press his advantage, but it was something. 

She gathered minimal obstructions around her, an armor of inconvenience. Topsy saw no reason not to give her a throw blanket to wrap around her shoulders, though the elf had strict orders on what the girl was allowed to wear. _That_ exchange had nettled her. She’d had to spend an hour in the bath burying the desire to fling breakables at Dolohov’s head.

_“Tippy, I’m freezing here. Surely Dolohov doesn’t want me to catch a cold?”_

_“Master told Tippy to only lay out the clothes Master chooses for Missy. Tippy isn’t wanting to iron her feets, not even for Miss.”_

_She’d inwardly roared and it took formidable strength to keep from hurling a pillow at the elf. “How am I supposed to keep warm then? Should I just-- just drag around the duvet?”_

_Tippy had tapped a spindly finger against her mouth. “Tippy could give Missy a little blanket for the library.”_

_“Oh, would you? Tippy, that would be perfect!”_

While she kept it on her preferred chair, it was in the back of her mind to huddle in it should Dolohov cast suggestive leers her way. He had kept to his word, but the dry rush of sand sometimes flooded her ears with the reminder that he would inevitably touch her again. This polite distance would not last forever.

“What are you reading, kitten?”

 _And he appears._ Hermione lowered the volume propped on her knees. “It’s a treatise on the magnetic properties of potions ingredients and their impact on brewing.”

His eyes sharpened. “By Alexander Creb? I remember that one; I read it the summer before my final year and old Sluggy thought I was brilliant when I mentioned iron-nickle could be used in a pinch to replace hematite in most minor love potions, though not in Amortentia.”

Hermione paged to the table of contents to scan upcoming chapters. “I haven’t gotten that far yet. But I imagine he would be fair impressed.”

“Not even Riddle knew it.” A shadow skirted the edges of his expression, but he blinked it away to refocus on her. “It is a good book. I would enjoy rereading it. Come.” He slunk into the lounger and gestured her to him.

“I’m a fast reader; I could finish it tonight if you’re wanting it.”

His mouth set in a stern line and she could feel the command prepared on his tongue should she resist. She pressed the book to her chest and allowed him to cradle her in his lap. For some minutes he kept one arm circling her waist and the other aside, leaned back to gaze over her shoulder. When Hermione had just released the worry of being fondled to the wind, he brushed her hair over one shoulder, finger trailing on the sensitive skin of her neck. Her pulse lept as the scruff from his chin scraped her. 

His chest thrummed with a hum of amusement. “Next page, kitten. Unless you are not finished with this one?” Dry fingers flicked the thick parchment to the next sheet. She forced her eyes to skim across the words at roughly her usual rate, but she could see the motion of her heart through gentle movements of her neckline. Her nerves sung to high sensitivity as Dolohov breathed a kiss against her throat. “This is pleasant, isn’t it?” Her voice was stuck below the line of his lips as he nuzzled into her. “You smell heavenly.”

A scream tried to scale its way up through her chest, but instead she croaked, “Please don’t.”

He rocked her hips back, releasing a hiss through clenched teeth at her plea. “Haven’t I been kind, kitten? I’ve abstained from fucking you for weeks, letting you grow used to my touch. And you,” he breathed hotly behind her ear, “have no idea how _tempting_ you are. I have spilled myself to thoughts of your sweet cunt and pretty tears every night you’ve been under my roof, and it grows more difficult by the day. Would you rather I snap and take you at the breakfast table some morning? Or shall I continue slowly? Hmm?”

Hermione forced down the panicked cries and wiped away tears that refused to stop. She shook her head, wanting to deny all of it, wanting to go back to her chair and while away the ages behind leather bindings rather than in his arms.

“Oh, kitten, you know what your tears do to me.” He plucked the book from her quaking hands and it disappeared from her narrow sight, then he spilled her onto her back and crawled above her, easing back her clinging curls, eyes filled with darkness that threatened to drown them both. “Sh, sh. Be a good girl. Let me touch you for a while; I won’t take you yet.”

A sob burbled between her lips and the predator above her moaned, pushing his hips between her thighs, skirt bunched over her stomach. Steel pressed to her core and his hands roamed her in horrifying worship. 

“Beautiful, so beautiful, _katyonok._ Yes, my breakable girl.” His mumblings grew increasingly incoherent as he rolled his hips against hers, and his lips frequently quieted to scorch her skin with kisses. He tugged and maneuvered until her small nipples spilled out of the immodest neckline, then he was sucking hard enough to arch her back. Her hands were nothing as they rained against him. He was latched to her, teeth gnashing that sensitive bud between them, and terrible heat coiled through her. He fisted her hair in line with the curve of her back and wrapped a hand around her throat, and sparks flew behind her eyelids as she prayed for it all to wash away.

As her mouth hung open, tongue poking between her lips, the spiral tightening within her burst into a shower of tingling pleasure. Tiny sounds echoed in her ears and she realized as she swam back to herself that it was her crying out what little she could as the Death Eater deprived her of life giving oxygen. His thrusts grew frantic before stuttering against her and he collapsed to press his mouth over hers.

“Good girl,” he crooned between lavishing unwanted affection on her. “So good, kitten. My sweet girl.” He hovered over her for long moments, fingers trailing softly as though to soothe the hurt from his teeth, traced their indents on her breasts where they were already blooming into deep red bruises. She began to worry that he would start again when a seething breath forced from him. “I am being summoned.” The back of his knuckles trailed her cheek. “I will check in with you when I return, if you are not asleep.”

She blinked up at him with wide, red-rimmed eyes and nodded, something like relief stirring at the sight of his back accented by sharp shame in her gut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm pretty much caught up with everything, but writing more! So yeah.


	12. Summons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dolohov is summoned away on business.

Hermione was floating in a pool of blissful unawareness when her door creaked open that evening. The place between wakefulness and sleep when thoughts rolled in slow currents and nerve signals twitched at fingers and toes-- it was the closest to peace she could find. There were no dreams, and her conscious side faded away. She was distant enough from herself that the sound didn’t register until her bed dipped under the weight of a body larger than her own.

Her skin tingled as Dolohov swept back her curls. “Sleepy kitten.” Velvet lips brushed her forehead. “I will see you at breakfast.”

Summons increased in frequency over the next two weeks, and Hermione found herself taking meals alone often as not. While she first thought this was fortunate, his appetite grew fervent and his patience waned. 

“Good evening, pet.” She was curled in bed and her hands darted up to ensure the ribbon-thin straps of her nightgown were in place. Hermione had not expected Dolohov to return quite yet, as meetings stretched into the dark hours of the morning and sometimes til the chorus of birds announced the waking of the sun. “You are the picture of perfection after such a long day.” He stalked forward with wolf-dark eyes, black robe sweeping to the floor before he sank beside her, fingertips stroking up the liquid silver satin over her thigh.

“I am about to go to bed,” she murmured into her lap, fighting off the shot of tingling anxiety beneath her nightgown. 

He breathed in her scent, wafts of heat brushing her throat. “I won’t stop you.” His unhurried lips whispered against her neck. “By all means, kitten. I am happy to pet you awake or asleep.”

She scowled at the idea of him molesting her unawares. “I’d rather you not.”

The hand that had skittered to her waist tightened in warning and her heart hiccoughed against her ribs. Strangely affectionate, almost doting, the darkness that clung to Dolohov was never far from the surface. “I must insist.” He rolled over her, pressing her shoulders to the black sheets. “I will be gone for a few days and I need memories of your sweet flesh to get me through the lonely nights.”

The ceiling stared back at her wide eyes as she drank in his words, something like hope lightning through her mind. “Oh?” Alone with only Topsy for days, perhaps she could find something to remedy her plight.

He nosed the deep vee of lace over one taut breast and sucked in a nipple painfully hard between his teeth before answering. “Yes, and I will be dropping you off too early for much.”

Like she’d been doused in icy water her body jolted. “Dropping me off?”

The Death Eater hummed as he slipped the straps down her arms, tugging it to expose her shivering upper body. “You’ll be at Malfoy Manor.” He gazed up between her breasts, lips red and swollen from his attentions. “I will not have you committing any Gryffindor stupidity while I am away.”

“I- I wouldn’t! Let me stay here. I don’t like the Malfoys.” He pulled the gown further down to reveal the line of knickers along her hips, and Hermione tangled her fingers in his curls, tugging his mouth from her abdomen. His eyes glinted with a darkness that had little to do with pain. “Please.”

He pressed a kiss against the slur on her forearm and gave a low laugh. “I could tie you to my bed while I’m away. Set spells to keep you warm and ready for me.” That was terrifying, her pupils sweeping over the warm brown of her eyes in fear. “I thought not.” His mouth lowered to the hem of her knickers. “Now lie back and let me enjoy you.”

“Don’t.” She pleaded. “Please. I’m not ready for more.” When her butterfly hands shoved against his face he twined his own around her wrists and pressed them into the mattress.

“Do not forget who is master here, mudblood.” The flash across her face was not fear this time. “ _ Incarcerous. _ ” As her legs began to kick in defiance he wrapped his arms around them and spread them wide before diving against her core. The wetness of his mouth seeped through her knickers as sucked harshly.

“No!” Her hips bucked wildly, but he suctioned to her, riding the motions. When he decided it was enough, one steely forearm ground across her pubis to hold her in place. He now kneeled on her calves, locking her in place beneath him, which freed one hand to slip beneath her knickers. 

“Ah, the sweet treachery of the teenage body.” Two fingers screwed into her and her spine bowed into a painful arch. “All those hormones overwhelming sense. You should hate this, but your sweet cunt is drooling for me.” Hermione’s head whipped around her face in her denial, and he attacked her in truth then. 

His tongue was all over her core, diving beneath his twisting fingers to slurp her essence with hungry groans before kissing back up to twist and swirl and suck on her sensitive clit. The Death Eater was a monstrously observant lover, drinking in every pulse of her walls and tightening of her muscles, ever keen and cry. Hermione tried desperately to cut through the sensation and swim to the safety of the little box in the back of her mind, but not even nails drawing blood in her palms could pull her from the chaos of his ministrations.

Dolohov dragged himself away, face shining with her juices, and Hermione unleashed her tears at last, thinking it was done. Instead of releasing her, he bent the girls legs back toward her ears and cast another spell with his pocketed wand to bind them to the headboard. He tossed the stick to the side and tugged his trousers open.

“No! Please, please, no, please don’t!” Her babbled pleas choked off when he dove back into her core, three fingers pumping inside her now as his other hand stroked himself. It was a sickening relief that he didn’t plan to rape her, though the feeling fled when his tongue swept lower and speared a place she never wanted anyone to touch. His spit oozed over the tight hole and he lapped insistently until she was sobbing, her wrists raw from tugging at the bindings, then his mouth roamed higher to suck at her clit once more and she screamed, his thumb circled over her newly prepared flesh and sank in.

It was too much; the world shook and waves of hateful pleasure were coaxed from her core to pour through her body in a tingling wash. His fingers milked every ounce of release from her and when she became limp, she realized he was groaning and still fisting himself. His hungry eyes rolled to her face and he watched her crying silently as he came, spend splashing against her back.

He slowly unfurled her, stroking a worshipful hand down her chest. “Shush, kitten, it’s over now.” Hermione attempted to curl into a ball, but his arms locked over her middle and held her close. She struggled fitfully against his dark embrace, but all her defiance had drained down his mouth and she finally sank against him. “There now, pet. That’s it.” Her tears were a silent veil as she quivered against her abuser. “You’ll be without my touch for days; would you begrudge me wanting to be intimate before I leave?” He held her as a doll against his chest, combing through her tangled curls lovingly. His breath tickling down smelled of musk and sweat over his usual evening tea. 

Hermione studied the orange glint of firelight on an obsidian button and thought she could, she did. She was a tapestry of hatred, every fiber of her being shining with resentment and shame and loathing. She’d been hiding from herself while time stood still in this horrifying house, and now the sands had flooded in and she’d run out of what little safety she had. Dolohov would wait no longer for her to be ready.

And Hermione knew it was time to face herself.

  
  


“This will be your room while you’re here.” Draco Malfoy’s tone was clipped, polite, utterly alien to her. He’d been that way since Dolohov had left her in the entryway to the manor after ravishing her mouth with his tongue until her head swam from lack of oxygen. “It’s got an en suite so you won’t need to worry about anyone walking in on you in the buff.”

“That’s… nice.” It was a modest room unlike anything at her usual prison; the furniture was all white and the bed clearly meant to accommodate one person alone, a day bed she thought it was called. Pale morning light obscured the sheer while overlay on the tall windows, heavier silver and ivy panels pushed back to let the day in. The hard marble floor was softened by the flurry of cabbage butterfly-embroidered carpet, thick and yielding beneath the thin slippers allowed her outside Dolohov’s home. It was all delicately feminine and fresh and green.

“Mother chose it. You can Floo here from any other fireplace in the manor. It’s the Green Room.” Her eyes widened to saucers, slinking to the fireplace in wonder. “You  _ can’t _ Floo outside the manor, Granger. Only those with the Dark Mark can apparate or floo here.” Her mouth shut with an audible click. “Right, so Pippa will be seeing to your needs while you’re here. She’s well aware of what’s allowed, so don’t try any Gryffindor nonsense like trying to free her or getting her to free you. You’re required to come down for meals. Breakfast is at eight, lunch is at one, and dinner is at seven. While not mandatory, mother takes tea in the solarium at three. Questions?”

Her soft slippers turned against the slick floor with ease, twirling her from her study of the room back to the blond youth. “Are you, like, my keeper?”

His placid features twisted into its more common sneer. “It’s called manners, Granger. When someone comes to your home as a guest it is customary to provide for them as I have.”

“I’m not exactly a guest, am I?” She had slipped the chains of Dolohov’s hunger but had no illusions to ear actual position in the pecking order. 

Malfoy’s eyes were too like  _ his _ , flashing quicksilver over her in irritation. “Would you rather we string you up in the dungeons and torture you?” He inspected her from head to toe and back again. “Missing your master’s whip already then. Well, I’m not as practiced as Dolohov, but I’m not opposed to it.”

“Are you mad?” Her restraint, already finger thin, was all that kept her from repeating her third year performance. “I would-- I never--”

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Granger.” He inspected his impeccably manicured nails and shrugged. “I’ll leave you to it then. Oh, and it should go without saying, but since you’re a daft little Gryffindor, nothing in here can be used as a weapon.”

He shut the door behind him to her glowering.

It really  _ was _ a nice room, Hermione pondered as she explored the nooks and crannies. The walls were ivory and trimmed in pale moss, over the mantel hung a lovely painting of women having a garden party amidst blossoming roses, a vanity was laden with little bottles and boxes, and the bedding was luxurious under her hand.

Of all things there was a book of poetry on the side table and it was like this Hermione decided to enjoy the momentary respite and immerse herself in verse. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a few more chapters written, though I don't know how since my brain currently feels like mush... anyway, thanks again for all the comments, kudos, love, etc!


	13. Formalities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What is daily life like among the Malfoys?

Lunch was a fairly innocuous event with only herself, Narcissa Malfoy, and Draco present. She’d thanked the woman for the lovely room and her gracious hosting and Narcissa Malfoy had responded in kind. And then Hermione had barricaded herself once more in her room, hoping to avoid any Death Eaters who might appear. 

She was interrupted by a house elf appearing in the center of the room. “Oh! Oh, er, hello.”

The elf, clothed in an immaculate white pillowcase and staring over at her with wide violet eyes, bowed low so that the ends of her stringy yellow hair brushed the floor. “Good evening, Miss. Pippa is here to help Miss get ready for dinner.”

Hermione shut the book with one finger marking her place. “Is it time already? I thought I had nearly an hour.” She glanced toward the gathering darkness outside her window. “I believe I should be able to find the dining room on my own, thank you, Pippa.”

The elf imitated an owl, blinking curiously at her. “Miss misunderstands. Lady Cissa sent Pippa to get Miss into proper evening attire.”

She peered down at her pale dress, hesitant annoyance pricking at her skin. “I’m dressed fine. Aren’t I?”

“The Malfoys are being a very old family, Miss. Very traditional. Come, Pippa will help.”

By Pippa’s measure, Hermione was in great need of her assistance. She was poked, prodded, polished, preened, and all manner of other things until the elf approved her appearance. Hair up, far too formal emerald gown, face defined and lined and rouged. She felt like a magical painting. But the elf was satisfied and finally deemed her fit for the Malfoy table with just minutes enough to tread downstairs to the room she’d spent the majority of her last visit.

She was sat across from Draco Malfoy, who’d hesitantly stood upon her entrance. Lord and Lady Malfoywere both in attendance, but no one else, and the unease twisting Hermione’s stomach dissipated enough to allow her to eat more than she had all day.

Hermione regretted it the moment the meal was finished.

“Miss Granger,” came the manicured voice of Lucius Malfoy. “You are to join Draco and I in the drawing room. The Dark Lord has requested your presence.”

Her blood flash-froze. “Sorry?”

The solid plink of his cane against the floor preceded his steps toward her. “Was I speaking French that you did not hear me?”

Had her palms now shaken with cool sweat, she might have blushed in either embarrassment or anger. Still, she refused to be cowed. She rose slowly on modest heels and rolled her shoulders back in attention. “I speak French.” Her voice was soft as moonlight, but the silver glare of the patriarch told her he had heard.

The drawing room. Her heart threatened to beat free of the confines of her chest as she crossed the threshold. It was a handsome room to be sure, but it echoed with her screams for mercy and the cackle of her tormentor. But it was blessedly bereft of Dark Wizards until the two Malfoys entered behind her. 

It was not quite as she recalled, though it took moments for her to realize exactly why. While the floor had been mostly clear before there were a number of elegant high-backed chairs arranged around the fireplace. One was deep, velvety green and dwarfed the others, nearly a throne, undoubtably Voldemort’s position.

“Sit, Miss Granger.” Lucius Malfoy had posed himself in a black chair that gleamed with a slight fleur de lis pattern visible in the fire’s gleam. He was Lucifer incarnate, white marble bathed in golden light, and she realized that the dark pallor marking him during the war had eased somewhat, perhaps due to Lord Voldemort’s common absences as he dealt with the issues of ruling the wizarding world.

He raised an oddly dark brow at her appraisal and she pursed her lips before turning to curl in a chair as far from the horrid Dark Lord’s own as she could. It was a peony pattern beside the hearth, the warmth sinking into flesh that could not stay heated in this glacial white manor.

“Granger.” A tumbler of fire whiskey obstructed her view and she blinked up at Draco Malfoy’s solemn expression. “You’ll want this before the others arise.”

Suspicion flittered around her and she tipped her head to study him. “Why?”

Malfoy’s Michaelangellan features twisted into its familiar sneer. “Far be it from me to expect a Gryffindor to accept a kindness from a Slytherin. You’re in the snake den, Granger, I had thought a little liquor would be welcome.”

Something akin to guilt swam through her before she brushed it aside, fingers wrapping around the offered glass. “Thank you.” He was right. This was about as dangerous a situation as any she’d been in recently and here was Draco Malfoy giving her a way to-- well, not escape, but perhaps ease the weight of it.

Disdain drained from his features until only the previously noted solemnity was left and he nodded before taking the seat beside hers. He nursed his own tumbler, though his drink was a bloody red that was too crimson for wine. His gaze flitted from her to his father, the fire, then back again in a nervous cycle, and she belatedly recognized he was nervous as well.

Lucius Malfoy sipped whatever amber liquor was in his own glass and stared into the fire, forefinger of his wand hand tapping the serpent head of his cane.

Never had Hermione contemplated herself in such a situation and she was unsure of the etiquette of it. She was certain there was etiquette as Purebloods seemed to steep themselves in useless traditions, evidenced by the ridiculous satin sheath gown that covered her legs completely now that they were folded beneath her on the chair. 

It was silent but for the comforting rattles of the fire and she felt as though an expectation for something had settled between her and her classmate, but could not fathom what.

“Drink, Granger. Try to relax.” While you can. He had downed nearly half his own. “I haven’t laced it with anything if that’s your worry.”

“Not trying to get me to moon over you with Amortentia then?” His mouth twisted but he didn’t respond to the barb; Hermione sipped the heady whiskey, suppressing a cough as it burned down her throat. She was not a drinker, as the night of three wine glasses proved, but she’d had her fair share thanks to her boys. 

Ron and Harry. She pressed her eyes closed as her mind conjured their faces. Not as she’d last seen then, but as they were to her in perpetuity. Ron with his sparkling blue eyes and cheeks warm beneath his freckles, and Harry sheepishly dragging a hand through windswept hair nearly as wild as her own. 

“I find it helps to drink enough for a buzz, but not enough to get drunk. Drunk lips can more easily offend.” Draco sodding Malfoy was offering her advice, she realized with a jolt. She frowned and he read the question. “You’ve already suffered in my home once, Granger. Your screams gave me a headache.”

“Thank you.”

Sardonicism, an emotion she’d imagined much too complex for a bigot like Malfoy, underlaid his words. “That’s the second time you’ve thanked me. Are you sure I didn’t potion you?”

“If you had, would it even be effective? You’re hardly on my brewing level after all,” she replied archly. 

Hermione relished in the momentary comfort, Draco Malfoy’s odd friendliness, the warmth of the fire, and the whiskey that subtly softened the edges of the world. It was a needed respite cut all too short as the Dark Lord appeared in their midst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My laptop charger died on me, so no writing today. However, I have a few more chapters already written. Again, I love all the comments, etc, and I'll eventually get around to responding.


	14. Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Dark Lord appears for a drink.

“Please, sit. We are all friends here after all.” He’d arrived silently and alone, sweeping into his sweat as his wand cut through the air and dragged the occupied chairs nearer, the empty backing against the far wall. “Miss Granger, how lovely to see you again.”

She grimaced a smile. “Thanks.” It was decidedly not lovely to see him.

Bloody red eyes trailed over her form like ants crawling down her skin. “Green suits you. But then, I have heard you’re a cunning little thing. Orchestrating rebellion via coins with Protean Charm? And that little stunt to rid yourself of the ministry plant. You’re lucky you were still a child at the time or no doubt the centaurs would have preferred your company to hers.”

The insinuation roiled her stomach unpleasantly. “I did what I had to do,” Hermione said more to herself to assuage the hint of regret that tinged her mind. Umbridge had been a nightmare: abusive and cowardly and willfully ignorant, all the worst sins to her Gryffindor palate. 

“Self-preservation is quite a Slytherin trait as well.”

Her eyes hardened to amber resin. “It wasn’t all for me.” Though Sirius had died that night, and the battle had been utter chaos.

“Ah, yes.” His low, soft voice was insidious in its surface benignity. "You were coming to the rescue of Harry Potter's godfather. Ironic given how events unfolded that night." The words seethed beneath her skin. "That was the night you first sparked Antonin's interest, was it not?"

"It was the night Dolohov cursed me, yes," she ground out, chasing the words with a swallow of whiskey. 

A hissed reproach followed. "That is not how you should refer to your master, Miss Granger. Has Antonin not seen fit to teach you manners?"

"My mother saw to that just fine, thank you." Her jaw clicked shut at the last, eyes widening as it hit her what she'd said.  _ The alcohol. Blast it.  _ She needed to slow down her drinking. 

"I doubt muggle parents imparted the proper attitude property should have to her master," the Dark Lord countered. 

"Freedom is the alone unoriginated birthright of man, and belongs to him by force of his-- or  _ her _ \-- humanity. I have no master." She glanced aside to take his reaction and, far from seeming angered, a sly smile had flit across his lipless mouth. 

"Kant? Ah, but you are a well-read thing. However, Kant was mistaken. Only those with the strength to assert their freedom deserve it. You, Miss Granger, failed in that respect." He considered her with that serpent gaze of his, too still and too predatory for humanity himself. "Perhaps we shall teach you to accept your place in this new world. As you are such a clever little mudblood, you should prove a good example." 

Fear was a knife through the placid fuzz of alcohol. "I--" There was no way to reel the words back inside her mouth. 

"Draco." The boy's attention snapped to his master as all attempt to feign distance waned from him. "You have an interest in Miss Granger, do you not?"

"My Lord?" His voice was reedy with uncertainty. 

“I’m not judging you, dear boy,” the wizard crooned. “No, I quite agree that she is a sumptuous little mouthful for a mudblood. I can see how one like her might tempt those of even the purest blood. Oh, calm yourself, Lucius. I’m not suggesting he breed with her.” The glint in his eye set off warning bells in the primal part of her mind that was still wary of the night. “However, I’ve found such desires can be fuel for the Dark Arts.”

Claws of nothing ripped Hermione from her seat and crashed her to her knees on the hard marble before Voldemort, the tumbler flying from her hand and shattering to shower her in small slivers of glass and liquor.

“We shall endeavor to teach you, mudblood, that magic is might and gives us the right to rule over those like you.” She saw his wand flick this time, flinching into herself to prepare, but pain did not come. Instead, air prickled at her bare flesh and Hermione threw her arms over her breasts. “Ah-ah, mudblood.” Her wrists wrenched behind her back and joined there, bound. “Now, how should you address Antonin Dolohov?”

Galleon wide eyes flicked between the men of the room, from Lucius’ cool indifference to Draco’s incredulity to Lord Voldemort's cruel delight. Spots of rose marred the porcelain of her classmate’s cheeks and she could feel heat reflected in her own. She knew what he wanted, but her voice was frozen in her throat, tongue heavy with mortification. 

“Disappointing. Draco?”

“My lord?” 

“The Cruciatus, if you would.”

Silver eyes locked with hers, a line appearing between his brows.  _ He doesn’t want to curse me. _ It was no balm to know he was nearly as much a victim as the Dark Lord’s whims as her own; there was no choice. 

The red curse hit her, flooding her with a pain she could never quite forget, nor never quite believe. Even Draco Malfoy’s less potent Unforgivable lit fire to her nerves so all she saw was the red of her own blood in her mind, the red of the hot spell, and the red of Voldemort’s eyes as he drank in the sight. Every muscle tensed, every joint contorted, and screams poured from her mouth like bitter red wine.

She was somehow still on her knees when she came back to herself, slumped forward and panting shards of air through her lungs. 

“How would you rate Draco’s performance, Miss Granger?” A slick black boot toed at her forehead and Hermione blinked the world into focus and rolled her torso back over her hips. 

“It fucking hurt,” she wheezed.

“Is that the proper way to address your master’s lord? Try again.”

Her eyes rolled up to meet the hated creature’s. “It fucking hurt,  _ my lord. _ ”

His chuckle was low and played across the room in an eerie tumble. “The right words at least, overlooking the vulgarity. But such attitude. Again, Draco.”

When Hermione came to the next time she was on her side, curls matted to her sweat-soaked skin. She coughed through attempts to breathe and something wet splattered the floor beside her cheek. 

“Isn’t she a sight like this?” Soft leather stroked against her spine and Hermione dizzily swept her eyes about until she came to the realization that her body laid with her head to the Dark Lord and her feet toward the fire; and that was his leather boot petting her sticky flesh. It was a syrupy, heavy thought, and it was  _ wrong, wrong, wrong. _

“Dolohov,” she panted, “doesn’t want anyone touching me.”

Her scalp seared as her head was jerked up to knee-height by Voldemort's wretched hand. “I am not _anyone_ , mudblood. _I am Lord Voldemort_ , and you live only because I have allowed it. I could kill you now and Dolohov would have no choice but to accept your pitiful death. I could fuck you in front of him and order him to watch. I could maim you, brand you, do anything I wish and no one could gainsay it. You receive such tender care at your master’s benevolence, and he is allowed the opportunity only at my own.”

The words teemed in her ears, each hiss a nail against her eardrums, and waves of electrical pain flushed through her head and neck from his cruel fist. 

“This is not your world, little mudblood. The sooner you accept your new position, the less pain you will endure in the learning.” He shoved her away from him, her limbs splaying brokenly across the reflective marble. Hermione laid there staring into the fire and steeped in pain as the Dark Lord returned to his drink.


	15. Lessons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another day, another Freya update. AND I have like three more ideas for HP fics once a current one has finished. I'll probably put polls on them on twitter.

“Granger.” The curt rap of knuckles sounded against her door. “You can’t stay in there forever, you know. The only reason I have yet to barge in is merely courtesy.”

Hermione’s ribs still ached with every breath and her eyes were swollen and red-rimmed from a night spent tormenting herself once she’d escaped at last to her room the night previously. She stared toward the window and did not flinch at Draco Malfoy’s knock.

“Well, I’ve warned you.” A hiss of irritated pain escaped grit teeth as the door creaked open. 

“I’m not hungry.” It was a repetition of what she’d told the elf earlier in the day.

“That’s bollocks. The Cruciatus uses a lot of energy. I’ve spent enough time under it myself to know.” She could sense him staring into her back. “Dolohov’ll be pissed if he comes back and you’ve lost weight. You hardly have any to lose as it is. I’d eat my wand if you’re more than seven stone.”

The familiar tone sparked at the flinty shield guarding her mind and Hermione rolled up to sit, favoring the Slytherin with furrowed brows and pursed lips. “I’m certain I weigh more than that,” she bit back. “Why would you even care?”

His eyes had violet bruises underscoring his lack of sleep and his hair was mussed as though he’d wrung a hand through it innumerable times. “He’s a deft hand with curses. I’d rather not gain firsthand experience.”

Teeth ground her inner cheeks as she imitated his usual sneer. “That’s my problem because…?”

“Look, Granger. I didn’t want to curse you yesterday. I didn’t really have a choice, so retribution is just cruel. I know you’re not cruel.”

“I’m not about to parade downstairs in another ridiculous evening gown for you and your Dark Lord to strip and humiliate.” 

“Wilty.” Confusion stirred until an elf popped in and bowed low.

This one had the longest ears and shortest noose she’d seen on an elf, and the hair from the drooping appendages of his head swished the floor with his movement. “How may Wilty serve Master Draco?”

“Fetch dinner service for two and give Mother my apologies. Miss Granger is unwell.” The elf swept low an]gain and disapparated. 

“What--?”

Efficient flicks set about rearranging the furniture of her room so that the two seats, one usually by the fireplace and the other by the window, were both in the open space at the latter place. The side table for the bed tipped and swayed over the rug into it settled between them.

It was onto this the elf, Wilty, set the tray laden with dinner plates, food, and drink. 

“Well? Sit.”

Smoothing hands over the dressing gown that was her primary clothing of the day, Hermione dropped into the ivy-patterned chair. “Why are you being nice to me?”

“Am I?” He took up silverware and sliced delicately at his roast beef; the cutlery made no noise against the sleek china. The rhythm of Hermione’s meal was far more noisy. It filled the silence with the disapproval of his denial. “What’s the point in being an arse now, Granger?”

The tender meat melted on her tongue and her eyes drifted shut to embrace the complex spices co-mingling with a hint of blood and light sauce. Her stomach gurgled appreciatively and she glared across at the boy who ineffectually hid his smirk with his napkin. “Was there ever a point, Malfoy? Other than trying to feel superior over everyone else.”

His ears flushed pink with his blush, coloring flourishing across pale features as though by a deft artist. “I was raised believing that, as a Malfoy, I  _ was _ superior to everyone else. All of my friends were stupid, with the possible exceptions of Theo and Blaise. But Theo is socially inept and Blaise is infatuated with his reflection, so neither were competition. I’m wealthy beyond reason, my family is-- was-- is--” his hand waffled with his expression. “The Malfoy name has always carried weight. I knew even at a young age that women would flock to me when I was older; my parents are gorgeous and I would be too, and I have a wizarding pedigree in Britain that dates back to the Norman invasion.” He swigged wine that seemed to drain the flush and allow him space to think and breathe. “I  _ was _ better. And then Potter came in and refused my friendship in favor of a Weasley, and later a mud--  _ muggleborn _ who bested me in every single class. You broke the rules constantly and were praised for it. It seemed the three of you could do no wrong, even when you were punching me in the face or running around the school after hours. And you, Granger. You’re everything I was told you were not supposed to be. Sure, you were always an irritatingly bossy little swot, and you went through a bit of an awkward phase with the-- the hair and the teeth-- sorry about that, by the way--”

Who the Hell was this rambling in front of her? Hermione had long since stopped the motion of fork to mouth and pinched herself to check whether she was dreaming. She wondered if someone had sent Veritaserum along with the wine; she herself had not touched it and warily eyed the velvety red liquid in the carafe. But she did not interrupt it, as it seemed the words had built up inside him through the year and were desperate to finally see the light of day.

“But you transformed and it seemed the only other person to notice it besides myself was Viktor bloody Krum, yet another person who preferred a member of the Golden Gryffindors to me, pureblood heir to the wealthiest family in British wizarding history. By then I was convinced I hated you, that you had somehow manipulated everyone so you only  _ seemed _ brilliant and beautiful, and I wondered along with Skeeter if you weren’t using potions or charms or something to make yourself desirable.” Shadows flared behind his eyes and he dropped his gaze to the still surface of his wine glass, suddenly deflated, next words hesitant and soft enough she leaned toward him over the table. “Until I saw you screaming on the drawing room floor while my aunt carved that word on your skin, the one I realized didn’t describe you at all.”

Her mind was curiously blank with the windy admission, as though he’d wiped it of every thought for her to listen more completely; but when she dipped into the pool of her mind, she came up empty. 

“I don’t hate you, Granger.” His gaze drifted up to hers, far more open than she’d seen Draco Malfoy ever look before. “I don’t think I ever did. I was just a foolish, confused boy trying to ignore the proof that my teachings were wrong when it was staring me in the face.”

Hermione blinked once and twice and leaned back in her seat. “Are you asking me to forgive you?”

“No!” Vehemence flurried from the word and his eyes were round with concern. “No. I’ve just never told anyone all of this before and I felt like, I don’t know. If there was anyone who might logically understand the mess I’ve made of my life it would be Hermione Granger.”

“Oh.”

Pale fingers smoothed over the stem of his glass. “I didn’t plan it. It came out all at once.” Pink stained his cheeks again as he stared down at his wine. “I didn’t mean to unduly burden you.”

The, “It’s fine,” floated between them without thought, all the while her mind was a churning whirlpool of thoughts that wouldn’t reflect on the surface for her to read.

“The Dark Lord isn’t here tonight, which is why I thought this little dinner might be excused; Mother is quite understanding.” Malfoy smoothed back his white-blond hair and cast her a half smile. “I could get you better reading material than that little book of poems, if you’d like. That way you can hide here as you’re able and not go stark raving mad.”

“Alright,” Hermione ventured. “That would be-- I’d appreciate that.”

The rest of the meal was fairly quiet and Malfoy left her ostensibly to go to the library. The house elf popped in not long after, a tower of books threatening to overtake the poor creature as Hermione directed him to put them on the table. As she catalogued the contents of her reading material, her mind wondered at the twist of fate that led to her accepting the generosity of Draco Malfoy.

Hermione was not so lucky the following day; she’d allowed Pippa to foist a silvery robe over a black sundress old fashioned enough to fit in wizarding society on her, and she took breakfast with Narcissa Malfoy and Draco Malfoy. Both that meal and lunch were quiet affairs, but around the golden hour, a nervous elf apparated in and requested she make her way to the solarium.

Whatever she had expected of her day, tea with Lord Voldemort was not it.

“Ah, Miss Granger. Sit, please. How wonderful to see you’ve recovered from your lesson.” He bared his teeth in smile and gestured to the empty seat flanked by himself and Draco, and the clack of kitten heels tapped her steps across the tile to the garden-style chair. 

“What is your tea of choice, Miss Granger? We have black and a rose chamomile on the table,” came the silken voice of Narcissa Malfoy, manicured fingers touching the fine teapots with a fingertip to indicate their blends. “And of course one of the elves can summon another.”

A tier of tea-time delicacies centered on the table, little saucers and sugar bowls and carafes of creamer… it would have been lovely were there not a looming tension in three of the four participants. “Black is fine, Mrs. Malfoy,” Hermione murmured. She took sugar and cream in the cup until it was the color of aged parchment. To her left sat Voldemort’s cup of tea as black as his soul and to her right Draco Malfoy’s was palest ivory. 

“How are you finding your time at Malfoy Manor, Hermione?”

Her back stiffened at the way Voldemort’s tongue curled around the syllables of her name. “Fine, thank you.” She did not want to do this.

“Mm, yes. The Malfoys are gracious hosts.” The air congealed at the statement. “And I’m sure Draco is keeping you company. Being in the same year, you must have quite a lot to talk about.” His serpent grin sharpened as he eyed the two. “What are your most frequent topics of conversation?”

Ripples spread in her mind as something prodded, and Hermione recalled that Voldemort had no compunctions about using legilimency. “Malfoy--”

“Draco,” the Dark wizard pressed. “We’re all friends here, Hermione.”

Her mouth tightened, but she acquiesced. “Draco brought me books from his family library. There are some historical texts I’d not seen before, and one on Arithmancy--”

“Ever the bookworm, Miss Granger. But I was speaking of more personal topics.” Scarlet eyes cut between the teenagers. “Has Draco confessed his little crush yet?”

The teacup to her right clanked clumsily and she kept her eyes on the gilding of her own saucer. “He has confessed he doesn't hate me entirely, yes,” she answered evenly.

“I can’t fault him,” the Dark Lord continued. “You’re a pretty enough little thing for a mudblood. Though I am astounded at the number of men willing to overlook the unfortunate circumstances of your birth. Dolohov has always been, well,  _ infatuated _ with one woman or another. Given your meeting, I am not surprised you are the other. Draco is young, a sin that excuses all sorts of foolishness. I had thought Severus had wizened to the games of dirty blooded girl, and Bella would be furious if she knew how often her husband thought of the fiery little Gryffindor.” 

“Professor Snape?” Her voice was nearly a squeak. “No, he couldn’t possibly--”

“I find your likeness conjured too often in his mind, Miss Granger, for him not to have a  _ soft spot _ for you.” That mouse-terror of being pinned by his slitted pupils tore through her mind again. “Tell me, are you truly so exceptional?”

“No.”

His lashless eyes narrowed. “I’ve read your Hogwarts files, you know. So much praise. Severus claimed you were nothing but a walking encyclopedia with a Gryffindor mouth to irritate him. That you lack original thought or creativity. However, it seems you’ve quite a creative streak when it comes to the Dark Arts. And you’ve so cleverly hidden your parents that they seem to have vanished altogether.”

Her tea companions were all watching her now, Voldemort with his predatory intensity, Malfoy in disbelief, and Narcissa Malfoy with an unreadable expression on her angelic face. 

Hermione set her teacup down, the surface trembling from the shake of her two hands. “I don't have parents anymore. They’re gone.”

“Gone?” echoed the hushed voice of Voldemort.

Her response rang hollow through her chest. “I Obliviated them. They don’t know me, and they have new lives now.”

“Granger.” 

A pale hand slipped over her own and she trailed it to Narcissa Malfoy, though it was her son who'd spoken. Hermione’s gaze trailed to him and his eyes shone. She labelled it pity.

Cool pressure forced her jaw toward Voldemort, his hand smooth as the scales of a snake. “Now that is fascinating.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once more I've made Draco Malfoy a good guy. I really need a dark fic version of him at some point, though he has always leaned canon toward *wanting* to be good to me. Still got dark potential.


	16. Dungeons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another day evening, another chance to piss off a dark lord.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *whistles innocently*

The Dark Lord was present at dinner that evening and ordered her to follow to the drawing room where Severus Snape and the Lestrange brothers awaited him. The men’s gazes drew to her like iron to a magnet and she lingered in the doorway as the Malfoys followed their lord. 

The only open seat was between Voldemort and Rabastan Lestrange and trepidity echoed her footsteps. 

“The mudblood is still intact I see,” the younger brother said as his eyes roved her curled-up form. “I thought you’d have cursed the shit out of her by now, Draco.”

“He did,” Voldemort purred. “I had him Cruciate her numerous times. Isn’t that right, dear boy?”

Stiffness laced the response. “Yes, my lord.”

“That must have been quite the entertainment.”

She took the tumbler of whiskey when it floated before her face, but held it between white-knuckled fingers. As alcohol could lower the walls of her compartmentalized mind, she was uncertain it was wise to indulge. Especially given the other evening.

“Care to have a turn, Severus?” the elder Lestrange quipped with a toothy smile. “We all know how you feel about the little swot.”

Her eyes flicked over to her cold professor, watching his own black gaze trail thick judgement over the inhabitants of the room. “I have heard enough of Miss Granger’s shrill voice to last a lifetime, thank you. No.”

“You could always silence her,” Rodolphus suggested. 

Snape rolled his eyes in a familiar expression of disdain. “Not all of us think with our wands alone, Rodolphus.

The double meaning cloyed the air and she could feel the rankle subsuming the Lestrange brothers. Rodolphus Lestrange tapped his forefinger against the tumbler held by fingertips. “Some of us wonder if you even know how to use your wand, Severus. It has been so long, hasn’t it?”

The astonishment lodged in her throat, caught between cough and barking laugh. It melted under the flat irritation lanced her way by the professor and Hermione found herself sipping burning whiskey before she could stop herself. 

“I assure you,” stroked the hypnotizing baritone, “that I have  _ complete _ mastery over my… wand. Though you will have to take my word, as I would rather keep it far from you and your wife.”

“You didn’t always feel that way.” It was a low singsong and Rabastan giggled at his brother’s insipidity.

The fire thundered in its cove, flames licking over the mantel in radiant ire. 

“Stop baiting Severus, Rodolphus. Or would you like us to speak of the indiscretions of  _ your _ youth?” The flesh over Voldermort’s eye raised, the cocking of a nonexistent brow.

The brothers exchanged unspoken words and Lestrange the elder leaned back and focused on his drink.

“How are reparations going, Severus?”

Snape began rambling about the castle and preparing it for the upcoming term, studying the fire with fathomless eyes as he spoke, one hand waving to emphasize his words. It was casual and absent, and she wondered how a man who had spent the majority of his life at the school could be so dispassionate about it, especially as he currently held the position of headmaster.

“And have you filled all of the positions?” By contrast, Voldemort’s silken sibilance was keen to discuss Hogwarts, the obsession of his youth.

Snape released a burdened sigh. “Most of the teaching positions are full and I have candidates I am screening for the others, but I have yet to procure a librarian. It is not quite as standard as similar positions, and it is a near-miracle Irma lived as long as she did to manage it.”

“What’s so different about it?” Hermione hadn’t realized she’d spoken until the spindly attentions of her companions redirected to her.

Something akin to amusement sparked in Snape’s eye as he answered. “I’m sure you’re familiar with some of the less savory items in the Restricted Section, Miss Granger. My predecessor had more volumes of a darker nature removed, and it will require a… deft hand to reinstate their position on the shelves.” Wryness twisted his mouth as he caught her salivary expression. “Though it seems the school’s edition of  _ Secrets of the Darkest Art  _ has vanished.”The image of her beaded purse swam across her mind and she turned her eyes to the mantel in case the professor could read it on her thoughts.

That bag was lost in the Forbidden Forest, and Hermione wished fervently that it remained lost, or perhaps was picked up by centaurs who would not want to turn it over to Death Eaters.  _ Particularly if they look inside it. _

“Did you feel dirty reading it, mudblood?” The Dark Lord’s hiss coiled toward her. “Imagining how I used that book as a most informative guide for my heinous acts?”

Her chest flamed with whiskey, anger, shame, and spirit, and she snapped without thought, “No dirtier than wearing Slytherin’s locket.”

His wrath crackled the air with magic, the hairs on the back of her neck tingling as they rose. “That one of your parentage dared touch something belonging to Slytherin himself is a greater sin than any I have committed.”

Gryffindor gold flashed behind her eyes as she responded, “And what would he have thought of  _ your  _ sullied lineage, incestual family nearly squibs until your mother raped your muggle father.”

There was no word of warning, no swish of wand, nothing to prepare for for the torrent of pain her body became. Malfoy’s Cruciatus was not a whisper to this, Bellatrix’s a shadow, Dolohov’s a pale imitation. It was a pain so dire one could only describe it in terms of that which would have been a comparable mercy. Had her blood been replaced with acid that made bone and sinew Swiss cheese, that would have been easier to endure. Gagging needles, poking out her own eyes, tearing off her fingernails. All at once, those things would not equal a tenth portion of the power of Lord Voldemort’s Cruciatus. Every nerve of her body, every synapse of her brain was being reprogrammed to feel, see, taste, think only pain in its purest form. 

It went on and on and one, stretching into eternity. It  _ was  _ eternity, and nothing had existed before and nothing would exist after, and oh, how  _ nothing _ would be everything if only it meant an end to this.

  
  


It was out of nothing she was pulled one aching muscle at a time. Cold, ragged stone swung beneath her toes, and metal clinked above her. Her body was stiff with the cold and the remnants of the curse, and, she found when she finally opened her eyes to take in her situation, the fact that she was currently hanging by her wrists in what was surely the Malfoy dungeon.

She naked, her fingers discolored by the impeded circulation, and she scrambled to stretch her feet for purchase. Merlin, but her shoulders ached. And her stomach was cramping so that it should not have been a surprise to find thick blood dripping down her thighs.

Of course. She huffed a bitter laugh, head tossed back to stare at the suspension ring holding her chains. A rusty grind accompanied her movement as the iron rotated. She’d been too thin for regularity so long now a part of her had forgotten she would inevitably get her cycle again one day. Dolohov and the Malfoys had ensured she was eating, so Hermione was at a healthier weight than she’d been since Christmas at least. Or perhaps when Ron left since she’d lost her appetite around then. 

It hurt less thinking about him,  _ them,  _ though perhaps that was because her physical condition eclipsed any of the physiological symptoms that accompanied emotional devastation when she thought about her family. And the boys were her family, all she’d had once she sent her parents to live out their new lives. 

Hermione was tired, exhausted, desperate. She stared helplessly at the shackles digging into her wrists, noting the lack of keyhole, not that she knew how to pick locks even if she had something to do it with. But, perhaps…

She took steadying breaths, attempting to gain control over her edying emotions. Spellcasting was about more than wands and motions. It was primarily intent. And Hermione had will enough she’d survived in a world that actively wanted her dead. She eased open the box into which she’d stuffed her inner Gryffindor (though the damn thing had leaked out regardless) and imagined her magic livening with its presence. She was a Gryffindor, a magical being defined somewhat by bravery, and there was not a spell in existence Hermione could not perform with a wand in hand. Without, she should be able to manage a first year incantation. She was Hermione Granger.

She envisioned the shackles around her wrists, focusing on the cut of the iron against her skin, the scent of iron accented by the blood between her thighs. They were in desperate need of cleaning, but wizards seemed less concerned with germs than muggles, having magical means to sterilize wounds. 

These were magical cuffs; they should respond to magic. Hermione gathered her intent under her breastbone, imagining the warmth of her magic spreading, tingling up her arms and into her wand hand. Her pointer finger, director her actions. A deep breath in, and--

“ _ Alohamora!. _ ”

The breezy warmth of magic flowed over her hands and face, and Hermione tugged her wrists only to find they were still locked. A wave of sorrow crashed through the joy of spellcasting. Retrospectively, expecting a simple unlocking charm to be effective here was foolish.

But the spell itself had worked despite not accomplishing what she’d set her mind to. Perhaps she could do it again at some point. 

The hollow of her stomach lurched when the screech of metal on metal echoed through the dungeon. Her body faced solid wall and she had not effectively swung to see any other angle. The dull slap of leather soles stirred the air, nearing until she could feel the dim heat of another person behind her.

“I don’t think Lucius would appreciate you bleeding all over his dungeon floor.” The low voice danced over the floor and to her ears, cadence as even as when he would instruct her in Potions. 

Spasms in the arch of one foot made it difficult for her to steady herself after the jolt of recognition, and a swirl of humiliation galled in her stomach. “I can assure you, professor, it isn’t by choice.”

Dust puffed against her toes with his next step. “No, I suppose it isn’t.” She could imagine his dark, cruel eyes taking in one of his least favorite students brought to such a low. “Dolohov doesn’t have you on a contraceptive potion?”

Garish pink bloomed across her face and chest, heating her ears, possibly the back of her neck, a demonstration of her embarrassment. “No.” The most common potions removed menstruation for three or six months at a time. She’d packed some for the hunt just in case, but they were unused among the other accumulated junk.

“Would you like one?” 

Her head jerked to make out the barest shadow of Snape by her peripherals. He was still as Death and the word choked on its way out. “Why?”

“You were my student for six years, Miss Granger. Do I need more reasons?”

Her dry tongue sanded over dry lips. “I’m muggleborn. And a know-it-all. You hate me.” Her eyes heated, but no tears filled them despite the ache in her chest.

He seemed to be staring roughly toward her face, his face cut straight forward. A tattoo beat against shushing cloth, the sound of fingertips drumming at his side. “Did you know Albus Dumbledore was dying long before that night atop the Astronomy Tower?” The question slapped across her and her mouth opened soundlessly. “He was cursed by the ring. A horcrux. I extended his life that year, but I could not contain the curse.”

She knew this, some of it anyway. “Why are you telling me this?”

His silence sparked uneasily across her nerves. “Something to consider.” He turned and left her hanging there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of y'all are gonna hate a certain character next chapter...


	17. Drip Drip Drop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rest of her dungeon stay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not me posting again so soon...

She was thirsty. Her mouth was long since void of spit and Hermione mourned every drop of sweat she’d surely wrung out while being Cruciated. Time passed in measures of chain rattles, breaths, and the mortifying stream at her apex. She had fallen asleep at one point only to wake from screaming shoulder pain as her feet had given up hope of holding her. The ridged blocks of stone making up the floor beneath her were drizzled in fat black splotches, some of which her feet had dragged through to scribble nonsense in flaking maroon.

“Awake at last, mudblood?” Her chains clanged at her shock and her body twisted helplessly until a buttery soft hand dug into her side. Relief palpated through her as she looked down at gleaming black gloves. “And Severus claimed you still had your tongue.”

Her mind trailed over his words, meaning slow to her parched intellect. Hermione tried to speak, but her throat ground like rusted machinery.

Thick wool caressed her as the man stepped in. “What was that?”

_ Water,  _ she mouthed raspily, throwing the whole of her thought into the word.

A sleek, black, leather-cased finger tipped her chin up to meet steely eyes. “You’re thirsty?” 

Her chin bobbed against his hand as she tried to focus.

“You’ve somehow weaseled your way into both my son’s and my wife’s affections. I had planned to leave you like this until your  _ master _ came for you, but Narcissa insisted I check in on you. A mudblood.” He glared at her through shockingly dark lashes for so fair a man, then swept his gaze over her entirety with a seething mask of distaste. “Why should I care about such a pathetic creature? You haven’t the wits to survive this world yourself, and I am a busy man.”

When she hung limply in reply Lucius Malfoy took a step back. 

“Perhaps I’ll find some amusement in this. Open your mouth.” His dark wand blurred with motion as he cast. “ _ Aguamenti. _ ”

Cold. It was so cold, cutting through nerves she’d thought numb from sensation. But it was blessed water, and Hermione’s jaw dropped to drink it in great, heaving gulps. It waterfalled over her, hair clinging to her shoulders and down her back, but she arched into it, seeking the sweet mercy.

It splashed over her face, snorted up her nose and coughed into her lungs until she was spluttering, but she moaned in displeasure as the water rushed over her breasts, pits, stomach, down to her core. Her thighs slapped together. 

“Spread your filthy legs, girl. Unless you enjoy being covered in your own menses.”

_ Horrid, cruel man _ , she thought at him. When she did not obey, he kicked her legs apart to continue her icy shower. 

“To think, this is what tempts my son to question our superiority as Purebloods. No well-bred woman would get herself in such a position. One would think you enjoy being tortured.” She could hear the sneer over the rush of water and steeled herself to keep from crying lest she find herself without drink again. The course splayed over her core until it burned red from the cold, then the man was circling her whilst spraying all the untouched bits of her body. “There. Perhaps your scent will cease to offend.” The spell ceased and stepped back once more to study her. “Well?”

Irritation flitted across his veneer and she realized what he wanted. “Er, thank you?” 

He studied her for a moment longer, then nodded to himself, brushing his empty hand through silken blond hair, then he nodded and turned on his heel, leaving a dripping, freezing Hermione to sag once more in her bonds.

Whether it was hours or a day, perhaps even two, when next the soft footfalls of the Malfoy patriarch next nudged Hermione from her half existence. “Haven’t stopped bleeding, I see.” She could hear the curl of his lip, feel the weighted disapproval of his glare. “Exactly how long should this keep on, mudblood?”

Heavy lashes fluttered apart and slitted umber eyes took in the man in front of her in all his patrician ambivalence. She’d have shrugged except that her muscles were anchored to the useless sack her body had become.

“Kneazle caught your tongue?” The creak of leather prefaced Lucius Malfoy pinching her chin between thumb and forefinger. “I expect an answer when I ask a question, mudblood.”

Cotton tongue trailed over chapped lips. “Four days.”

He arched a brow. “Four  _ more _ days or four total?”

“Total,” she croaked. 

A contemplative hum accompanied the schooling of his sharp features. “That’s something.” Silver eyes trailed down over her post-mortem imitation of a vessel. “I suppose you’re thirsty again.”

They locked gazes and she nodded weakly. “And hungry.”

“Presumptuous,” Mr. Malfoy huffed. “Slight as you are,” he drawled with a scathing leer at her abdomen, “you can survive days yet without food. Now, would you like some water?”

“Yes.”

“Tut-tut. Is that any way to ask for a favor?” Cruel amusement danced at the corners of his mouth as he leaned over her expectantly.

Too drained to fight, she pleaded, “Could I please have some water?”

The low chuckle brushed warmly over her forehead. “Well, well, she can be taught. Open wide, Miss Granger.” Her jaw dropped with the insistence of his thumb and she closed her eyes to prepare for the onslaught. Rustling as he shifted, then a smooth edge pressed to her lips and cool sweetness followed. 

It was far more reasonable this time, droplets escaping at the corners to tickle down her throat. She groaned in relief as it slaked her burning thirst with each gulp, but it was pulled away too soon and her mouth desperately tried to follow. 

“I won’t have you losing your stomach while I’m here, mudblood. You should drink only in measured increments.” Protest lodged in her throat when she met his glare. “Good. Now for your bath.” A hiss of distress seethed out of her as freezing water hosed from the man’s wand. It rushed over her face and neck, falling in sheets over her as he turned round her, falling over her pits once more, insistently beating the area beneath her breasts, and then the spray slowly lowered. She summoned energy enough to glower as he kicked her legs apart with all the ease of scruffing a kitten. He skewered her with a stare that seemed to stir her insides with debasement. Minutes passed, her thighs prickling with cold until they were mere slices of meat on her body, water splashing up to ice her chest. When she thought she might fall over the edge into true despair, the stream stuttered to a stop.

“Much improved,” he purred. “A little more water? I’m feeling generous.” He pressed the conjured chalice to her mouth again and allowed her long draughts. “Very good. Until next time, Miss Granger.”

  
  


Warmth started between her shoulders and spread through her back and lapped at her side. The deadened strain at her wrists released and she groaned as fire shot through her arms, aching muscle and bone drifting down beside her, guided by cloud-soft wonder. 

“There we are.” Her heels touched cold stone floor and she sank at soft jointed knees-- until the warmth enveloped her more fully and she was floating against a warm, comforting embrace. “My poor kitten. My frail little girl.” Plush heat ran against her forehead, but her lids were leaden. The world tipped and swayed, set to the rhythmic thumping against her ear. It lulled her back to familiar static nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lucius is a dick... also, does anyone know where I got the chapter name from?


	18. Comfort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione and Dolohov reconnect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's Dark Daddy Dolohov.

The yielding firmament beneath her dipped at her side and Hermione frowned, a keen vertigo swimming over her as she tried to orient herself. She was not, as she found upon opening her eyes, hanging upright. Rather, she was lying on a bed. It was the most comfortable bed she’d ever laid on, better than the magical mattress at Hogwarts or her parents’ bed at home. It was Heaven to her aching limbs.

“She wakes.” Coarse fingers skimmed through her hair and dark curls framed the shadowed face above her. “Goodmorning, kitten. Are you finally with me?” He brushed his lips over her forehead. “You are not as ill as you were when I rescued you. In moments you were close enough to consciousness to swallow some potions for me.” At the alarm sparked behind amber eyes, he smiled. “A nutritional potion and a healing potion, sweet girl, nothing nefarious.” He stroked down her arm. “I also rubbed your poor, abused muscles. Malfoy should not have kept you in such conditions so long, punishment from the Dark Lord or no.” She didn’t know what to say, so allowed him to keep petting her. “Hung up and bleeding like a piece of meat.” Dolohov’s flat palm laid over her womb. “I am sorry I was not there for you, kitten. I would have eased your pain whatever way I could.”

The stream of her thoughts began to strengthen and she quipped back almost as the words finished forming in her head, “A hot bath, chocolate, and being alone in bed with a good book are all I need, thank you.”

His thick lips twitched as he gazed at her with pupils swallowing up the light on her face. “Do you not get cramps?”

“I do,” Hermione conceded.

“There are many ways to ease such pain, particularly with a partner.” His red tongue darted out, eyes heavy lidded. “Let me teach you.”

Meaning came with the flush of blood through her cheeks. “But there’s blood; it’s all messy.”

Fingertips trailed down to the curls between her legs and she slapped a hand over his forearm to tug it away. Amusement shone, a spark among the heat, and his corded muscles slid easily under her hand, clever fingers ghostlin at the join of her lips. “Do you think I am disgusted by a little blood? By  _ your  _ blood?”

“I am a muggleborn,” she countered.

“You are mine.” Dolohov lowered his mouth to brush the words against her lips. “And there is nothing that delights me more than that which I can compel from you.”

At the last, he covered her mouth with his own, lips smoother than she remembered, but hard in how they ate at her, His tongue swept into her mouth, lapping away her breath like it would give him life, and those clever fingers plucked prurience into her core until the heat at both ends threatened to burn her up between them. 

He parted from drinking her little whimpers to pant into her hair. “So sweet, kitten. Yes, there’s my good girl.” His mouth burned down her throat, raising bites of fire across her skin. His free hand shuffled, metal clinking, then the press of his length against her thrummed fear down her spine. “All for you, my beautiful Hermione.” 

Her palms volleyed against his still-covered shoulders as he pressed into the slickness he’d provoked from her unwilling body and she cried out, turning her head from his attentions. As his hips snapped once, twice, finally sheathed fully in her, she began to release quiet tears. 

Incomprehensible nothings spilled against the press at her throat and he kissed his way to her cheeks, turning her face toward him in the rough vice of his hand. Wet, velvet muscle laved at her tears until he was drawn once more to her trembling lips. And there he drank her cries, bitter glass from her throat turned spun glass on his tongue. He stroked the little bundle of nerves where they joined, spinning out unwilling pleasure to wind her tightly around him. 

Distantly she wondered how this would have been with another. With Ron, with Viktor, with Harry even, best and trusted friend with whom her safety and comfort would be foremost. Had he experienced this with Ginny, had the chance at romance and pleasure before his death?

She sobbed into the darkness surrounding her, the man moaning as he eagerly tasted her grief, pace speeding both himself and her toward the edge. He ripped his mouth away to watch her beautiful distress; when she curled brokenly against his chest, pulling at the thick cloth of his shirt to bury her tears, he became frantic, stabbing until he jerked her hips firmly to his own and spilled into her.

“ _ Lyubimaya _ …” A stream of perplexing syllables drained into her hair as she found herself rolled over to sprawl across his chest. Dolohov was whispering sweet, low, intimate gibberish and petting her, holding her like she was a favored doll. 

Hermione had had a stuffed elephant growing up, and her mother had begun buying her lions after she was Sorted into Gryffindor. The elephant was pink and named Oscar, and Hermione had stopped sleeping with him tucked beside her the night she left for Hogwarts, worried she would seem immature to the witches with whom she roomed. She needn’t have worried; not only did she spy an orange frog (Parvati’s) and a  _ lavender _ bear, but her mother soon sent her a Godric, a handsome, velvetine lion that fit perfectly in her arms and would roar when she squeezed him.

Godric was in her bag, though she hadn’t dragged him out for a time. Some time after Ron had left, she and Harry had started cuddling in one bed. It was purely comfort borne of long friendship and the situation. She’d be crying and he would slip beside her and stroke her back until she slept, or he’d cry out in his sleep and she would do the same to calm him to restfulness. After a while they started sleeping in the same bed at the start of the night rather than when something inevitably woke them. And they would fall asleep in warmth, whispering all the hopes and fears they couldn’t say face-to-face in the light of day.

“Is that Russian?” she queried, hovering between memory and the parallel moment of the present. 

His breath stirred her hair. “Mm. My mother spoke little English. I learned Russian at her breast. My father prefered English, but he’d brought her from the old country. She had me hardly a year from their marriage, and she had little chance to learn much of the country before she was locked away from society.”

“Why?”

“My father was a possessive man and old fashioned in his way; he did not want his young, pregnant wife out playing the socialite. British Purebloods may play that way, but he was particular.” His voice was dreamy, fond as he worked his fingers through her wild hair. “She then had to care for me, and she was pregnant again soon after.”

Hermione eased her head from the warm drum of his chest, tipping up to look at him. “You have siblings?”

His eyes were grey wells of darkness, lips quirked with satisfaction. “No. My mother miscarried several times, but I was the only child she birthed.” He smoothed a thumb over her furrowed brows. “She was devoted to me, as all mothers should be to their sons, and she was an accommodating wife.”

Uncomfortable at the yearning warmth of his words, Hermione lowered his cheek once more to his chest. “My parents loved each other, and me. Well, I suppose they do still love each other.”

“Yes, I was told what you did to your parents, _ katyonak _ . Such a strong girl.” Dolohov murmured with a kiss to her forehead. “You will have a family of your own to love someday.”

The lost possibility ached like her heart had frozen in her chest. “Not in this world.” He hummed and stroked her hair and she was lulled back asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are you happy Dolly's back? I both am and want to return to the dungeon, but I am a special kind of weirdo. Don't worry, hope springs somewhere in the future. 
> 
> I have like 4.5 more chapters written already and will be writing for a few more days at least. The story is more than 40k words right now and growing.
> 
> I am living for y'all's comments, btw! I've just been pouring the energy into writing. You are all lovely, and I am enjoying the reactions to the horrorcoaster.
> 
> See you all tomorrow probably! (because why not post again).
> 
> OH! And I chose the title of the last chapter because of Juvia from Fairytail. I love my little raindrop.


	19. Potions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione and Dolohov talk more about his expectations.

When she woke a few hours later Hermione’s stomach was creaking with hunger. She glanced at the silver-face clock on the mantle to see that Dolohov had allowed her to sleep til lunch, something he normally forbade. Well, he had reason to be in a good mood.

She scurried to her room and washed quickly in the little en suite, trying to ignore the pink-tinged drip between her legs. She would have to address this now that, well… she had about a week before that  _ particular _ issue was immediate, but it would be better to do so now. Right?

A pale grey robe went over her bruise-peppered flesh and Hermione slid her feet into house slippers, huddled her arms around herself, and tiptoed to the dining room.

Antonin Dolohov was languid in his seat, glancing up from  _ The Daily Prophet  _ to dip a sated gaze over her body. “Good afternoon, pet.”

She slid into her seat with a tense smile in return, pouring herself tea to bolster her sluggish mind. 

“Did you enjoy your nap?”

His shirt was green. Not Slytherin green, but the green of tender moss growing in a corner. Hadn’t he worn black earlier? She could have sworn she’d buried herself against his black-clad chest.

“Hm? Oh. Yes.”

The paper warbled as he shook it out to lay on the table. “Is there something on your mind?” She shook her head, flinching back when one of his large hands encased hers where it lay beside her plate. “Tell me.”

Shit. Her heart launched against her ribs in protest, but his stare was lasering into her and Hermione could taste his impatience in the air. “I’ll need a potion.” It was small, a hoarse whisper crawling from her throat.

A hot thumb stroked the line of her wrist. “What potion, kitten? Another nutritional potion? How many days were you without food?” Had she glanced up she would have seen the dip of his dark brows. 

“No.” She pursed her lips, closed her eyes, breath light in her mouth as she stole herself to say the words. “Contraceptive potion.” The stroking thumb stilled, then the weight of his palm released her and her own hand was cooled by the rush of the room pressing in. When no words prompted her, her lids drifted open and she looked askew at him.

Dark, unreadable grey eyes stared at her; her heart fluttered weakly. “If I wanted you to have such a potion I would have given one to you the first time.”

The words made no sense. She shook her head, trying to clear the cobwebs so she could process them properly. Surely he wasn’t implying he was denying her contraceptives. There was a perfectly reasonable explanation for this.

_ Think, Hermione. Put that brain to use. Why wouldn’t you need a contraceptive? _

“You-- you’re not--? You have your own form already then?” she stammered, steadying herself with a sip from the delicate peony teacup. 

Amusement tugged at a corner of his mouth. “No.”

Silence followed the statement. “I don’t understand.” she confessed.

“Hermione.” Thick fingers wrapped around her wrist and guided it down with the gentleness of handling a skittish bird. Once she’d placed down the cup, he tugged the hand between both of his, thumbs rubbing up the back of it. “You are… exceptional. A witch like you should not be possible, borne out of muggles as you are. A powerful mudblood? It is ridiculous, but undeniable. And you are mine.”

She was still shaking her head in denial. “But Voldem--”

Her chin was suddenly in a bruising grasp as Dolohov hissed. “Do  _ not _ say his name.” She swallowed the knot in her throat and gave a single bob of her head in acquiescence. The sharp lines of his face softened beyond their normal stoniness. “The Dark Lord told me himself. Despite your atrocious behavior while I was gone-- yes, kitten, I know you angered him. I am quite aware of why you were punished. But it was he who gave me permission. You are the first mudblood the Dark Lord has seen fit to grant this honor. Perhaps the only one of your kind.”

She jerked back, but could not free herself from the steel of his hands. “I’m a  _ mudblood _ ,” Hermione stressed. “Doesn’t that bother you? You’ll sully your precious bloodline with me.”

A shadow swam behind his eyes and bitterness belied the slight smile he bore. “I courted a half-blood in my youth. Even after she disappeared from my life, I hoped she would regret her mistake and come back to me.” He huffed a chuckle. “But you’re here. And you’re so strong, my sweet girl. Elena would have only come to me broken.” A loving hand cupped her cheek. “But you, Hermione.  _ You _ , I think, can endure my cruelty. My beautiful lioness.” 

His voice was thick with tenderness and it stirred her stomach until she wanted to vomit. Only the lack of food in her kept her from fleeing the table. “No.” It hovered in the air like a butterfly.

“I thought you wanted a family, Hermione?” 

He was mocking her, stabbing at the raw pain of her loss. She shook her head and pressed back from the table, but his grip remained, the bones of her hand fine as porcelain in his. “No.” It was said more firmly this time.

“The Dark Lord anticipates a strong child from our union--”

“ _ No.”  _ The word cut through whatever else he would taunt her with _.  _ I’ll starve myself again; my body won’t be able to do it.”

Hardness overtook his countenance, danger radiating from his aura. “If you think I am above force-feeding you, you underestimate me. I have waited decades to have my family, to have a woman who will give me an heir. I will have it, Hermione.”

“Go find your bloody half-blood, then. Or a Pureblood. I will not--”

“You presume too much autonomy. I have made my decision.” A low growl underscored his wrath. 

Hermione twisted in his grasp, the chair stuttering over the floor to clatter backwards; only his grip helped her stay on her feet, though she pulled until her shoulder ached. “I won’t. I  _ won’t _ . I will die first, I swear.” Her pulse battered against his fingers and stormed through her chest. She was treading above water, but the next wave was threatening on the horizon. 

“This isn’t a surprise, surely? I told you what I wanted your first night under this roof.” He sneered, hauling her to stand between the cage of his knees. “Did you imagine you would stay here as I found a wife? No, kitten. Why go out and find a woman when I have a perfectly good one right here?”

“Because I’m everything you hate.” The words rang hollow even to her. “Because  _ I _ hate  _ you. _ ”

His hands clenched her at the words and his fury transformed. “You are such a passionate little thing. That is good. Our children will benefit from your fire.”

“No!” Hermione recoiled. “I would rather die a thousand deaths than bear the child of a maddened, inbred fucking Death Eater!”

She was flying against the glass of the tall windows before she could breathe, her declaration having left her winded. Dolohov shook her, her head stammering on the hard surface. “You will do as I say or I will shatter you into a million pieces. I will torture until your throat tears and your screams form bloody pools on the floor. Do you understand me?”

“Go to Hell.” Her loathing growled out like burning coals. 

He stared down at her, into her, and a slow smile spread his lips. “Did you enjoy the Dark Lord’s  _ Cruciatus? _ It was horrible, wasn’t it? Like nothing you’ve felt before.” His tongue flicked out wetly. “He is far more sadistic than I am, you know. The girl I loved? She fled because she was  _ his _ . He was going to pass her to me once he’d wrung out everything he wanted from her. She had scars all over her pretty skin. She was the first woman I ever tortured.”

Her eyes flamed into his own, refusing to be cowed. One brow lifted, waiting for him to get to his point.

“He’s expressed a mild interest in tasting you for himself.” Shock burst through her, her head slamming into the glass again, eyes widening in horror. “Yes, he has. Now, I am a possessive man, Hermione, but if you continue to test me, perhaps I’ll pass you off to him for a while. A night, a week, a month. When you return to me you will be so grateful for my  _ tender _ affections, you will be desperate for me.”

It wasn’t until a cough forced from her that Hermione realized she hadn’t breathed since his revelation. 

“And you will be.” He leaned into her, speaking the singed words into her hair. “He uses it during sex sometimes, you know. The torture curse. Not even I have tread that deeply in my sadism. Although you tempt me, kitten. You know just how to piss me off, and anger is a boon to the _Cruciatus_.”

High ringing layered over his speech, threading her consciousness away so she was only a watcher through her own eyes. Dolohov was enjoying her fear, grinding his erection against her roiling stomach. 

“Is that what you want, Hermione? Do you want to see how much you can take before you crumble?” 

She thought she might be shaking, but it was difficult to be aware of anything but his voice.

“Hm?”

“No.” It was a breath.

He slipped his arms around her hips and jerked them against him. “I don’t know if I believe you. You’ll have to show me.” Kisses fluttered against her ear and down her throat. “Show me you can be good for me, Hermione.”

She crashed back into herself with cold tears tumbling over the ridges of her lower lashes. “Please. I’m sorry.”

“I’m sure you are,” he laughed. “Come, you need to eat.” He wiped her tears and pressed his lips to each cheek before guiding her back to her seat. 

Hermione scanned the page blankly. She had been trying to read for hours, but her mind kept winding back to the moment in the dining room. Pallid, scaly flesh flashed through her mind and she cringed. The idea of Voldemort touching her had a visceral impact. The little she had endured at his hands thus far was a window too clear for her to think Dolohov’s words were a lie, at least what the Dark wizard’s preferences were. She prayed his threat was not true. That Voldemort wouldn’t care to-- to do that to her, exceptional or not.

Bitter laughter slashed at her vocal chords. Merlin, Morganna, and Nimue, she was thinking about  _ the Dark Lord _ , fucking  _ Lord Voldemort _ , wanting to have sex with her, Hermione Granger, the Gryffindor mudblood and Harry Potter’s best friend. It was insanity! Her laughs grew to echo in the library until she was shrieking with it, book falling to the floor in a heap of crushed pages and she threw back her head. It was ripping her open, slicing through the walls, building until it would crack the foundation of the house before she would stop.

It hurt deliciously, bubbled joylessly from her lips until her stomach was cramping and she had to curl in on herself, wheezing howls hiccoughing through her ribs.

And it ended as abruptly as it began, still tolling in her ears as the grin drained from her face along the blood returning to its usual route. 

No. She would not let that happen. And she wasn’t going to have any children with Antonin fucking Dolohov either.

_ I will find a way out of this. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I know some of y'all may have seen that coming. I'm currently four to five chapters ahead and still trucking, so daily updates shall continue.
> 
> Dolohov is quite the manipulator, but Hermione is both intelligent and resilient. 
> 
> Also "I would rather die a thousand deaths..." is an allusion to a fairytale-esque movie.


	20. Order

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Visitors arrive at Dolohov's home; Hermione sees familiar faces. Is there hope?

“Good morning, kitten.” Red light beat through her closed lids and Hermione tossed a forearm across her face to block out the sun. “Wake up, lovely girl. We are having company today. Isn’t that exciting?”

Adrenaline spiked from her teeth to her toes and Hermione shot upright. 

“There she is.” Dolohov stroked a loose lock behind her ear, his finger too loud as it ran down the curve of cartilage. “Just a few people, love. Severus and a few others you might know, new Death Eaters who require mentorship.”

“I don’t want to see them.”

“Now, kitten, that is no way for a proper hostess to act,” he chided. “You are the mistress of this manor and you will behave appropriately toward our guests.

“I am not your wife,” she snapped.

A vice tightened on her forearm. “You are  _ mine _ , and that is the essence of a wife, is it not? Ah, you believe a marriage is a partnership. There is only one way to be anything near that now, pet, and I don’t think you have the wherewithal to do that.” He looked between her eyes. “Not yet. Now go make yourself presentable.”

He wrenched her from the bed and she stumbled against the cold floor, catching herself on the little side table. 

Hermione wanted to take her time. She was covered in bites and bruises from Dolohov’s regular “affection” and part of her hoped she could scrub them from herself, or perhaps obscure them if only she could get deep enough. However, Dolohov’s insistent waking bespoke imperative. He would lack patience if she pushed.

Once towelled off, she shrugged into the bathrobe hung on the door and peeked into the room. He was gone, though he’d left a dress spread across her bed. It was a red sundress covered in little white flowers; no sleeves, sweetheart neckline, hanging just above her knees when she tugged it overhead. Angry red circles and plum purple smears marred her throat, chest, and shoulders. Additional purple, blue, and banana-bruise brown speckled her arms and legs.

There was nothing for it. He had chosen the dress to show her battered body, she was sure. Whenever he spotted his work on her, he exuded pleasure. So Hermione slipped on the low red heels he’d set at the foot of the bed and clicked her way to the dining room.

“Ah, here she is. As I said, Severus, my pet was just getting up for the day.” He stalked to her, grey eyes darting over every blemish he’d placed, nearly purring as he kissed her cheek. “You look lovely.”

She was staring behind him where Snape’s black eyes were watching with unvoiced disdain. Beside him was Blaise Zabini, and in yet the next seat…

_ Michael Corner was a member of Dumbledore’s Army. He’d spoken out in favor of helping Harry at the battle. Why is he here as a supposed Death Eater? _

The Ravenclaw grimaced at her examination, reading the direction of her thoughts.

“Miss Granger.” That was the whole of Snape’s greeting, though he was mapping the markings on her skin, lifting a brow before peering at her face.

“Professor.” Dolohov guided her to her seat, acting the gentleman by pulling it out for her. 

Zabini had curiosity written across his face, which was much too open considering his new station. “Granger. You look… better than the last time I saw you, I guess.” That had been in the Great Hall before McGonegal sent the Slytherins to their dormitory. 

She snorted at the unexpected comment. “That really isn’t saying much. I was on the brink of starvation after nearly a year on the run.”

White teeth flashed in his dark face. “If you didn’t look like you’d been mauled by a werewolf I’d have said you look good.”

“Zabini,” warned Snape.

Dolohov was enjoying the exchange as it brought signs of his possession into focus. “It’s fine, Severus. Hermione would not be showing my marks unless I desired it.”

The potions master sneered in distaste. “That is crude.”

The response was a grin as Dolohov stroked a finger around the deep semicircle of a bite mark spreading from the front of her trapezius muscle to the back of it, where the rest of the bruise was out of sight. 

“Hermione,” hazarded the other young man. His blue eyes were earnestly bright. “I’m glad you’re here. Alive, I mean.”

Her teeth clicked as she snapped her mouth shut.  _ What is his game? _

“Mister Corner here is my ward. He was a decent student.” Snape admitted. “So I have agreed to take him on and gauge if he is salvageable.”

Hermione glanced between the sheepish boy and the stern man, her brows slowly easing. “Oh. Sorry, Michael.”

One side of his mouth twitched. “‘S’okay. I’d be suspicious too, in your shoes.”

His eyes screamed regret, guilt, shame, a plea for understanding. Then they lowered to her exposed skin and flinched, other emotions replaced by concern.

Her throat tightened. “It’s good to see you.”

“This isn’t a reunion of your Order, girl,” Snape drawled. “Mister Corner is now my protege, no more your ally than I am.”

Dolohov led her hand to her teacup. She hadn’t noticed him making it for her, but there it was, the pale cream she preferred of the breakfast blend. “I am surprised you took on a ward, Severus. You have never struck me as fond of any of your students, excepting the Malfoy lad.”

His glare shifted like the slow roll of molasses. “Far be it from me to allow a potentially useful student to fall to the wayside. Mister Corner has already proven most informative.”

Hermione studied him with narrowed eyes. “And Zabini?”

“I’m trustworthy enough to do what I want without a grown up to hold my leash.” Zabini surveyed her lecherously, dropping a wink for good measure. “Looks like you’ve been pulling at yours.”

“Not all of us are tame little sycophants,” she responded evenly, plucking a piece of toast from the platter on the table and set to slathering it in jam. “Some of us are capable of independent thought.”

“Yes, yes, we all know. You’re Hermione Granger, Great Brain of Gryffindor.”

She smothered the bubbling giggle in her throat and exchanged raised brows with Zabini, momentarily at peace with the familiar banter. The two were in many of the same classes, and the swarthy Slytherin was more interested in witty repartee than genuine hostility. It was a balm to see that war had not changed him much.

_ Not that he experienced much of it himself. _ The thought was a thorny prick at her heart. 

“Are you actually going to eat, Granger, or do you only arrange plate art these days?” Zabini was frowning at the toast now centered on the white round. She has moved to peeling a tangerine, the citrus tang settling her stomach with its sweetness. 

Hermione paused, thumb ensconced between pulpy flesh and delicate skin, and a drop of juice trailed down her wrist. “I… I guess I’ll eat.” She had been going through the motions, her stomach a shrunken stone and her appetite absent with her mindset.

“You’re still a bit thin,” said Michael. “Not like you were, but you’re--” he glanced askew at Dolohov and then back at her. “You’re eating regularly, right?”

“Dolohov isn’t starving me, if that’s what you’re asking.” She tore off a wedge of the little fruit and popped it in her mouth, the juice stinging with its sour-sweet flavor. 

“Antonin, kitten,” the Death Eater corrected gently. 

Her eyes narrowed at him. “No, thank you.” 

The muscle at his jaw ticked under rough skin. “Then you could refer me to as the Dark Lord suggested of you.” His eyes glittered with subdued menace. “I would hate for him to think his kind lessons were wasted.”

Fingers of ice shivered down her back and she stiffened. “Antonin, then.”

He nodded accession. 

“How did--”

“How do you think, Corner?” Zabini snapped at the other boy. “The torture curse. The same as the Dark Lord teaches any lesson. It’s been weeks now; surely you’ve learned something about the way the world works now.”

By the sunken purple skin around his eyes, Michael Corner was indeed aware of the new order of things. His skin was thin enough she could trace the blue of his carotid down into black robes.

“Indeed.” Snape set down his cup of black tea. “You may both count yourself fortunate not to be treated as Miss Granger has by some of my brethren. And I am sure she is realizing her  _ good luck  _ at finding herself with Antonin rather than, say, the Lestranges.”

Revulsion shuddered through her two former classmates, though Hermione was no longer certain her situation was better than the alternative. Sure, Rodolphus Lestrange was a creepy pervert, but so was Dolohov. And she highly doubted Bellatrix would allow him to  _ breed  _ with her, regardless of whether he’d be amenable or not (and she veered toward not). 

Dolohov seemed to view this arrangement as a romance, and it chilled her marrow to frozen lead. 

"Are you grateful, kitten?" He was gazing at her, vacillating between adoration and expectation. When she stared at him, blinking at the audacity, the balance tipped and Hermione saw that she was trying his patience. 

"Yes… Antonin." 

He stroked her cheek, thumb lining her lower lip before pulling away. 

"Must you be so demonstrative?"

Dolohov grinned at his comrade. "I'm affectionate with my women, what can I say?"

"Not that I've seen otherwise," Snape countered. His entire countenance spoke his disapproval, though whether it was her blood status, the fact that she was previously his student, or general disdain for public displays she could not tell. 

"A quick shag is different. This is a bit more than that." He hadn't looked away from her despite directing the statement to Snape. 

"And here I thought we would continue to wallow in unity." The professor rolled his eyes.

"Why lament a woman you will never have when there is such a feast before you." Hermione saw Blaise nearly choke at the Death Eater's words. 

Then it struck her what they'd been saying. "What lost love do you mourn, professor?"

His expression thundered as he considered her before the shadows parted to show a sliver of cunning. "Didn’t Potter tell you before he marched off to his death? It was his mother, Lily Evans.”

A net of disbelief settled over her. “What?” At the lift of the man’s black brow she laughed. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Quite,” he murmured over his tea. “We were childhood friends, attended Hogwarts together.” Was he having a go at her? “Until she decided to date Potter and I… Well.”

Hysterical giggles frothed through her voice. “You are sworn to the man who killed the only woman you ever loved? Oh, that is just… Just…”

“We do as we must.” His black eyes speared her with their echoing solemnity. “You are beginning to understand, yourself.”

The fathomless eyes and prophetic words resonated through her and she nodded a stiff neck. 

“Now, Antonin, are you attending tomorrow evening’s meeting, or has the Dark Lord given you leave?”

The other Death Eater turned thoughtful. “I’ve been given a reprieve since the mission was a relative success.”

The two devolved into Death Eater politics, Blaise Zabini occasionally chiming in, but the other two silent as they picked at their food. When the conversation grew sparse, it was clear they would soon be leaving. Hermione’s head ached from the strange events and she longed to rest.

“Granger, wait!” Michael halted her as she excused herself from the table. He approached her and held out a hand for her to shake. “I really am glad to see you.” He pressed his other hand to the back of hers as they shook and she felt weight shift into her palm. When it lowered back to her side, she cupped the small object lightly. 

“Thanks, Michael. You too.”

Before she could give anything away, she promptly stalked to her room. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have about five more chapters and working on more. The fic will officially reach novel length in about 1.2k words. WHOOO.
> 
> Also, I love you all. The conflicting emotions on whether Hermione will cave or Dolly will be redeemed (I just got my meds refilled and so I'm spacy okay?), feelings about Lucius' behavior, good Draco, Voldemort... Your theories and commentary keep me alive. Seriously. I read half the comments to my husband because they're amazing.
> 
> Additionally. I think I have spun out the ending. And it is, well, appropriate for me.


	21. Revelation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A step forward, a step back.

It still read the date of the battle, and Hermione’s pulse stampeded through her veins as it turned the mill of her mind. Her back was against the door and she half expected the wood to tremble in time with her heartbeat. The was a DA coin. Michael had handed her a DA coin.

More, it was not presented as a token of times gone. He’d been terrified when he handed it over, his skin clammy and cold and his eyes pleading with her to take it. 

She held the precious gold as if it held all the secrets whispered behind the Veil. This coin… Was it even possible for the implication to be true? Or would her hopes once more be dashed against the rocks? He was living under Snape’s watchful eye now, how had he been able to sneak it to her?

Hermione dropped onto her bed and pulled the book she’d set aside over her lap, slipping the coin between the first page and the front cover. And what been with Snape?

First at the Malfoys’ he’d told her to think about the fact that Dumbledore was a dying man even before he’d killed him. 

He’d also offered her contraceptives. “Fuck.” She should have tried to tell him that she wanted them. However, if she’d tried to be too circumspect, he might spill all about it in front of Dolohov, who would not be pleased. And then he’d know she wasn’t allowed. 

_ Put that aside for now, Hermione. Focus.  _

Draco Malfoy had been trying to kill the Headmaster all year, but failing spectacularly. Perhaps they were the halfhearted attempts of a boy who didn’t want to murder anyone. In the end the task had fallen to Snape. Trusted spy, Severus Snape, supposed friend of Dumbledore, and member of the Order of the Phoenix.

“This isn’t a reunion of your Order, girl,” Snape drawled. “Mister Corner is now my protege, no more your ally than I am.”

Michael was never  _ in  _ the Order; he was a part of the DA. 

Snape was friends with Harry’s mom and apparently still in love with her, since he and Dolohov had apparently commiserated over their shared heartbreak. Lily Potter was a muggleborn, like Hermione. She was intelligent, gifted at Charms and Transfiguration, much like Hermione as well. Voldemort had mentioned that Hermione’s face was often on the Potions master’s mind, but was it because he had an interest in her or because she reminded him of Lily. 

If he still loved her…?

She was on the precipice, tottering between sheer cliff and frozen abyss, and both sides were swathed in darkness. On the one side was more of her current misery and on the other…

Warmth permeated the book in a quick flash and Hermione’s breath was stolen in the rush to flip open the cover and stare down at shining gold. 

The numbers had changed. They were set to a future time and date.

She sobbed and closed the book to clutch it to her chest, sinking into cozy oblivion.

It both lightened the burden of her fate and enlivened the whirring of her mind, but she was also antsy. Having a date and not knowing precisely what it meant sent electrical flashes through her chest. It could just mean the next time she’d see someone from the DA. It could mean she would receive a message. Perhaps a rescue attempt.

No, that would be quite a lot, and the time was set for midday. It was not optimal for a rescue mission.

Hermione settled on transmission of messages. Just seeing someone was good, as it allowed her to know they were still alive, but the coin was too important a symbol to surrender for such a goal.

“Antonin?” 

He looked up from his book, smarmy at her use of his name. “Yes, pet?”

She buried the instinct to fidget. “Could I have parchment and a quill? And ink,” she added. “I would like to take notes.”

The possessive warmth in his eyes tinged with study. “I suppose. You’ll not pick any locks with a quill. Nor could you hope to murder me with it.” At her clear astonishment at the idea he laughed, pulling her to his chest to plant a kiss on her cheek. “I’ll worry when you ask for a knife.” She accepted his touch despite it setting ants to crawl under her skin. He was always doing that, tugging her into his lap or hovering to kiss her or laying a hand on her thigh. 

He readjusted them on the settee so she sprawled against his chest and his legs spanned the length of the couch. Her book had to rest on him as well, but he seemed not to mind, greedy fingers carding through her hair. 

Belatedly she remembered herself. “Thank you.”

He exuded the pride of a master whose dog had fetched the morning paper unasked. “You’re very welcome, love.”

That word. It twisted up her insides in a nauseous parody of his own. Whereas he dementedly meant the endearment, it was the worst mockery to her ears. It was a bellows for her hatred. 

But there were pieces of a plan tentatively clicking into place, and she had to be delicate in her behavior. Dolohov could notice nothing, and he was with her ever-increasingly. He hadn’t attended a meeting in the days since he’d returned and he had made a habit of waking her in the mornings.

“I am inclined to reward you when you behave so well,” he purred. “I told you obedience would serve you.”

She hummed agreeably, locked on her book. He could flip from affection to lust with one word of obeisance from her.  _ Sometimes not even that. _

“You have started to endure me with such grace, pet. And it will only grow easier.” Dolohov tugged the book from her fingers and rolled her astride himself. “Someday you will hunger for me as I hunger for you.” He was a black hole splayed beneath her, warm and forceful and trying to suck her under. He tugged at the silk of her dress until it bunched at her hips to allow him to pay homage to her thighs, palms kneading the meat. “And you have begun filling out beautifully. Not long until you are deliciously soft.” He rolled hips against her core, fingers dimpling her tender flesh. “Do you like that,  _ katyonok _ ?” One brutal fist tangled in the curtain of her hair. “Hm?”

Hermione shook her head, wincing at the sharpness of his grip. The pull guided her to raise up and fall back against him, setting a rhythm that redirected her pulse to thrum in discordant pleasure. 

“Oh, I think you do. I bet if I checked I’d find your pretty little twat drooling for me.” Hermione railed against the statement silently and his face lit with amusement. “You cannot help it,  _ katyonok. _ I know you want to hate the feeling of my cock against you, but your teenage body is just on fire with hormones, isn’t it.” Her hair was released so he could pluck at her nipples, tugging down the straps on her shoulders to bare her. When her pace stalled, Dolohov pinched twistedly and imitated handling reins until she continued. “You were built for this. These pretty little tits, your tight little cunt.” He slipped his wand from its holster and spelled away her knickers. “Lift up.” It went away and he jerked his belt and trousers open to pull out his erection.

He nudged the leaking, furious head against her folds and she jolted up. “No, no, kitten. Other way.” 

She could not move. Lead had taken over her veins and her muscles were too heavy, useless. Her eyes widened to the size of the coin hidden in her pillowcase in her room. He wanted her to-- and she couldn’t. She didn’t  _ want _ it.

“I’ll help you.” He cradled her in one arm and steered her to sink on him. When Hermione felt the head at her entrance, she pushed ineffectually at him, but he fondled her hips and slammed her down before she could begin to struggle. The pain of hitting her depth sucked the air from her lungs.

“Shush,  _ katyonok. _ I tried to let you set the pace, did I not? You were being childish.” He caressed her cheek, pulled her head down to meet his own, tongue leisurely roaming her mouth. When their lips parted, he cooed, “Will you be good for me now? Hm?” He’d pet back to her hips and was directing her movements in counterpart to his own. “There we are, so beautiful.” His thumb popped between her lips and trailed down to one rosie nipple, but her pace did not stutter.

Not even when he encircled one of her wrists and guided it between her thighs to touch herself, her entire body flaming with her mortification.

“So perfect, kitten, riding my cock like you were created for it. Your cunt molded for my pleasure, your pretty little body a canvas for me to paint.” Her toes tingled oddly, warm, fuzzy pleasure building there in conjunction with the waves building in her core. He was now pawing at her breasts, engulfing them and kneading hard enough to bow her spine. “I love watching you fight against your own release, how unwillingly you find your ecstasy. And here you are now,  _ katyonok _ , panting like you’re in heat as you fuck yourself on my cock.”

Please, pain, and humiliation swirled in a befuddling cocktail, and Hermione cried out as she drove herself faster against him, chasing that moment of sweet obscurity. She was sick with want, head thrown back, curls flying with every bounce. He drove into her from below and the delicious added speed sent her reeling. 

Hermione quaked and undulated over him, only his hands on her body keeping her in place as he used her up, finishing inside with bruising thrusts. She hardly noticed, run ragged, thighs burning and feet still tingling. Then she was curled against his chest once more, shirt unbuttoned so her cheeks laid on sweating skin still thumping with his racing heart.

“Good girl.” He was petting her again. “And look, you didn’t even cry this time.”

Self-loathing rose bitterly on her tongue and she wanted to run to the toilet and vomit it all out. Instead she closed her eyes and listened to his steady heartbeat. He really was training her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm currently writing chapter 28, so I'm flying through this. However, I have some commissions to work on, so I need to devote time out of my days for that holiday gift creating. 
> 
> I occasionally ask relevant questions about this fic and others on my Twitter. My fandom Twitter is the only one I use (I have several; it is ridiculous). So follow me there if you'd like. Yeah, I also need to figure out why my email on my carrd isn't working too. I swear I'm working on the things.


	22. Countdown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tea with visitors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's up? Not me wine-tipsy posting another chapter.

It was the day on her coin. Hermione had weasled about to figure out the date. It wasn’t that she wasn’t allowed to know, but more that she didn’t want Antonin to realize she was paying it any mind.

She was in the shower before the Death Eater came to wake her, having risen early with anxious excitement of a child on her birthday. She came out, one sinfully thick burgundy towel wrapped around herself and another massaging the water from her hair.

“Good morning, kitten.” 

Hermione froze with one foot hovering above the floor. Dolohov was lounging on her bed, which wasn’t anything unusual; however, he was wearing red.

Death Eaters tended to avoid the color, a remnant of foolish childhood disdain for all things Gryffindor. But his buttondown was the blaring scarlet of freshly spilt blood, vibrant against the black of his slacks. 

She reeled her mind back into her body and continued walking into the room. “Good morning, Antonin.”

Today’s dress was a deep ruby and form-fitting. “We’ll match.”

He caught a drop sliding from her hair, rough pad streaking it across her throat. “You look so lovely in red, and I enjoy prickling at those who still have such strong feelings against a house in a children’s school.”

It so mirrored her own thoughts that Hermione found herself tracking across his face for signs of legilimency. 

“I am not the Dark Lord, Hermione,” he grinned. “I need a wand to read your mind. My family was new to Britain, remember? We did not have the house rivalry of Hogwarts ingrained in us from infancy.” He stood and tipped her chin up for a kiss. “The Dark Lord is joining us for tea later. There will be nothing like your behavior last time you saw him.” He nodded as she shook her head no. “Good. I will see you at the table.”

Lord Voldemort was coming for tea. Lord- _ fucking- _ Voldemort. Was that what the coin was about? A warning?

Hermione paced as she stripped the towels aside to prepare for the day. Who was the last person to have the master coin? It was Harry’s, but clearly someone else had it. Had Voldemort taken it from--? No, Harry gave it to Neville to call the members of the DA to Hogwarts.

_ Neville  _ had the coin. Unless someone took it from him. He was with the Lestranges, Rodolphus had let that slip the night he’d come over for a drink and her torment. Perhaps Bellatrix would drag him along with her. She could just picture the sadistic woman shrieking with glee at the state of herself. Constantly bearing his marks and not allowed to cover them. Neville wasn’t always quickest on the uptake, but neither was he an idiot. He would see the bruises, the bites, and he would know what was happening to her even if Bellatrix didn’t scream it out.

It sank in her pit, and she resigned herself that yet another person, this time one of her few true friends, would know. 

But if he did have the coin and he was able to keep it secret, did that mean he was still trying to fight? And that he and Michael Corner were communicating as well?

Frail hope sparked in her chest once more, reaching upward like a sunflower to buoy her. She had to write a note. A short one, easy to hide.

Hermione tore a little corner from her parchment, thought, then dipped the ink. 

_ I’m in.  _

Simple, effective. Although, there was something else weighing on her.

_ If you see M, tell him I need the potion S offered me. _

Hopefully that was both vague enough to keep from trouble and informative enough someone would smuggle her what she needed. If Michael was safe enough to ask Snape then he might be able to. If not… well, he was a Ravenclaw and he had certainly realized what was happening here. He might decide to risk sneaking her a contraceptive on principle.

She tucked it beneath a clawfoot of the bathtub to fetch late.

Dolohov’s head was in her lap, lids heavy as he listened to the dry ruffling of her fingers through the pages of her book. Her acorn-dark eyes flitted to the clock and it set cogs of anxiety awhirl in her chest. “Antonin?”

“Yes, love?”

Hermione took a deep, grounding breath. “You said the Dark Lord would be visiting for tea?” At his hummed assent, she hesitated, “Could I go freshen up a bit in my room? It- it would help calm me a little if I might prepare myself.”

His hand floated up to draw one of her curls behind her ear. “You may. Kiss me.”

She bent herself to peck against his mouth and he was smiling as he sat up. “Three on the dot, kitten.”

“Of course.”

Hermione struggled not to dance to the patters of her heart, closing her door behind her with a sigh of relief that she was  _ right there _ . She was going to manage this. 

The note folded, hidden in her ballet flats. It was simple, her plan. She would wait until she was beside Neville but everyone else was distant enough they wouldn’t see, then she’d raise her foot enough to dislodge the note and nudge Neville’s shoe so he could see it. And find a wake to discreetly pick it up. 

She piled her hair up, not difficult with Tippy’s daily ministrations, and painted on the scarlet lipstick that Dolohov salivated at. 

“No time like the present.”

She padded down the hall, voices drifting toward her from the entry. There was Voldemort’s, then Dolohov’s. But she did not hear Neville’s, nor any Lestrange’s. 

“Good afternoon, Miss Granger.” Severus Snape peered down his long nose at her, his baritone the third voice she’d heard.

“Good afternoon, Professor Snape.” This was not what she’d expected.

Dolohov laid his hand on her lower back to guide her. 

“Ah, here’s your pet mudblood.” The Dark Lord’s lipless mouth curved and her nerves flurried.

“Good afternoon, my lord.” She ducked her head in deference and was rewarded by the weight on her back smoothing in a circle. 

Dolohov pressed to start her toward the sitting room. “This way, please.” 

The two chairs were in a foreign position to her, instead cat-cornered to a coffee table. A lounger was opposite them, garishly, richly bird patterned with sculpted silver feet. It was to that Antonin directed her, landing a hand on her thigh as they sat.

Tea service was already laid out. Snape had an austere white cup with blue banding on the rim, the bottom edge, and around the center. The saucer matched. Voldemort’s was black porcelain with little white flowery vines outlined on it, though the saucer was white with etched black leaves. Hers was her usual peony cup, and Antonin’s was a scalloped bone white with a golden tim, both with matching saucers. The service itself was silver.

“This is a lightly spiced chai blend with vanilla notes,” the host said as the teapot tipped over each cup in turn. “Dark, caffeinated, and highly fragrant.”

Hermione busied her hands pulling apart a scone for jam. She kept her movements small, her shoulders squared, her expression neutral as her mind ticked behind the veil of her eyes (set firmly on her hands). Snape was across from her, stirring the diminutive silver spoon through cocoa pale tea with nary a clink against the porcelain. 

“I see you’ve been enjoying yourself, Antonin.” The Dark Lord’s voice lilted with his amusement, keen ruby eyes flitting over her body invasively.

The hand on her thigh tightened, patted, fingers setting to tiny circles on her skin. “How could I not, with such lovely company?”

Hermione had always loathed when people talked about her like she wasn’t present; even  _ worse  _ was this: talking about her obliquely as though she were a pet and not human at all. 

“I am surprised she hasn’t driven you further into madness with her incessant questions.” Her cheeks burned at her former teacher’s scorn. “Always desperate to prove herself, that one.”

“Not at all, Severus.” Fondness warmed Dolohov’s tone. “She has been quite well-behaved since coming home. Learning to accept her new station, and being quite the pleasant pet. Her questions are hardly incessant. And some of us appreciate eagerness to please.” He’d trailed up to her throat, tracing abstractions on her.

“Must you fondle the girl in while you have guests?”

Dolohov’s response was clipped. “I am hardly fondling her. Are you so cold that you view any sign of affection in such a way?”

“Forgive me if I am uncomfortable seeing a child I taught for six years being manhandled by a man old enough to be  _ my _ father,” Snape sneered. “Tell me, is this how you have behaved toward the half-blood you coveted as well? No wonder she refused to wed you.”

Despite the coils of tension between the two Death Eaters, or perhaps because of it, Voldemort looked on with the satisfied mein of a snake digesting a rabbit. 

“What do you mean by that?” The grip had returned to her thigh and was digging new bruises into her.

“Only that you increasingly flaunt the signs of your attentions. She is covered in the visual representations of your forceful appetites. Hardly gentlemanly.”

“Hermione is not currently my wife,” Dolohov countered. “Perhaps in time she will earn such privileges. But for now, she dresses as I wish and I will not be reprimanded for it in my own house.”

“Severus.” The Dark Lord’s drawl sliced through their bickering. “He is hardly  _ fucking  _ her in front of us, and you have seen worse at Revels. You knew what Miss Granger would experience here and you accepted the invitation for tea. Stop being difficult.”

“Apologies, my Lord.” Dark eyes flicked to her. “You as well, Miss Granger. I did not mean to draw undue attention to your… situation.”

“I appreciate that, professor.” Severus Snape had apologized to her. Apologized to her, Hermione Granger. Something flashed across from her, a glint of sunlight in pale fingers, and she looked up to see Snape rolling a coin across his knuckles. A Galleon.

He caught her eyes with his own, glanced toward the clock, then back at the coin, and her again. Voldemort and Dolohov were talking, but it was distant to her ears, the background buzz of flies to a silent churning of thoughts beneath the surface of her mind. 

The clock chimed the quarter hour, a single long bell, and the coin slipped down, rolling across the table to her. Hermione jolted and slapped her hand over it just as it began to heat against its resting place. The air surrounding her thickened, pushing all else away as she flipped it onto her hand and stared down. The numbers along the edge were changing for the current to a future time and date. This was a DA coin, but not the master coin.

“My Galleon, Miss Granger, if you please.” The Potions master’s long white hand was extended toward her and she looked up at it, aware of every joint of her spine as she tipped her head. Hermione pinched the coin between thumb and forefinger and planted it firmly in his hand. “Thank you.”

“Really, Severus, you shouldn’t be fidgeting like a child.” Hypocritical considering Dolohov used her as his personal touchstone. 

Black eyes burned between them. “Perhaps I will follow your lead and get myself a lap cat then.”

Before he could make a rebuttal, Voldemort cut in. “I must say I am surprised to see Miss Granger behaving so… tamely. Last we met, she still had quite the disrespectful tongue.”

Her heart thundered at the reminder.

“She has learned, my Lord. Since her punishment at Malfoy Manor, Hermione has truly been a delight.” 

“Good.” The Dark Lord’s smirk had transformed into a sneer as his anger seethed toward her. “I will have no more blatant rebellion from , Antonin, your little pet or not. The next time she behaves so rashly toward me, I will see to her re-education until I find her fit to continue life. And I know you would prefer relatively unbroken.”

“Yes, my Lord,” the man answered dutifully. “Thank you. I have already warned her she escaped relatively well considering.”

“You are one of my oldest friends, after all,” Voldemort breezed. “An original Knight, and my first Death Eater to bear the Mark. You should be grateful, mudblood,” he added, now turning his bloody gaze on her, “that I have such a fond history with your master.”

As though a slim silver needle stuck through her to the couch cushions behind her, she was pinned by his coldness. “Yes, my Lord.” His mottled skin shifted over one brow ridge and Hermione turned her courtesy to Dolohov. “I am very grateful to you, Antonin.”

He cupped her smooth cheek in one reverential palm. “And you are showing it each time you surrender to me, kitten. I am very pleased with you.”

“Well.” Snape’s teacup met saucer with uncivilized chatter. “You may enjoy playing house, but I personally find it nauseating to watch. I shall be leaving soon. I have an appointment at the Lestranges’.”

“Again?” Hermione looked up at that. Was he there often?

Though Snape’s head veered toward the other men, he locked gazes with her, the pressure of his thoughts searing through the black irises. “I have a weekly appointment to ensure they haven’t damaged Longbottom. Given Bella’s history, I find it better to be safe.”

Neville. He was going to see Neville. This was her chance. If there was even the slightest chance Snape was helping them, shouldn’t she take it? And if he wasn’t… he did not seem happy with the insinuations Dolohov had dropped about her, less with obvious parts of the arrangement. The second part of her note was for him. Perhaps he’d take pity on her.

Hermione popped up her heel out and then toed the shoe back on, the sliver of paper flicking to the floor. As she adjusted the shoe, her foot slipped and nudged against familiar black boots. Snape glared at her and she dropped her eyes to the note, flicked them back up and down again.

“Antonin, could you pass the cream?” No one else had been looking, but she thought threading the focus to herself might lessen the chance of anyone watching the professor. “Thank you.” She splashed the cream into her tea and watched white whirl in the darkness until it dispersed into a layer of caramel richness.

Snape had knocked over his spoon and rose from its retrieval as she finished. The note was no longer on the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, really. Y'all should thank ShadowSurfing for being awesome and inspiring me further. And I adore all of you. Your comments warm my heart.


	23. Rebellion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione is a Gryffindor, after all.

The date on her coin had changed to match Snape’s. Harry’s birthday. Obviously Voldemort did not have the master coin, though that did not negate the possibility Bellatrix Lestrange had it. It could all be a plot to drive the DA into the open, though that necessitated that Michael was either part of it or an unwilling tool.

Hermione paced her small bedroom in long, even strides. Seven steps this way, six that, right and four and about face, four and six and seven, about turn… An Arithmancy book was in her hands to explain away her deep concentration should Antonin enter.

It could be a trap even, to get Dolohov or the Dark Lord or both to torture, kill, whatever the remaining members or her specifically. The Death Eater would be furious to discover her current submission was only a farce to mask her intentions to rebel. Not that he thought her truly accepting, but he seemed to believe it was a combination of her logic insisting on survival however she must, and abused woman syndrome creeping into her. Neither should be desirable, but that didn’t bother him. 

Still, risk versus reward. The potential rewards were immeasurable at most and a small relief at least. She would risk her life for freedom, and already had told Dolohov she’d die to avoid the other unwanted event, should it occur.

It was the right thing to do.

And if Snape was truly working with Neville, Neville whom he’d bullied and ridiculed til the boy’s boggart took his form, it was worth any cost to help.

To know.

To have hope.

She could even endure Antonin Dolohov’s affection if she knew there would be an end. Hermione Granger was a Gryffindor, and Gryffindors stood up when it mattered.

Dolohov had a meeting that evening; they were weekly at the least, and sometimes as often as every third day. They were only daily when there was an upcoming mission of vital importance, or so she’d gathered. Dolohov, it seemed, was one of Voldemort’s staunchest supporters.

When he left, she went back to pacing her room and deliberating. She needed to compile everything she’d gleaned thus far both about the Death Eaters and the survivors from her side. Perhaps she could begin an examination of the situation and develop strategies.

She took up her quill in her wand hand, the other gripping parchment to the flat cover of her current book. The tip of the quill was sharp as a thought on her tongue as she measured her options. She could work to assign each variable numerical form and set it through equations. Or she could use representative runes. Even runes could be set in logical equations to reach conclusions.

_If I go that route Voldemort should be represented by Kenaz using Elder Furthark. Although reversed Mannaz, indicative of his perversion of humanity, might work too. Laguz could easily represent all of the information I don’t know._

_Or I could use Arithmantic principles with Runic wizarding number symbolism. The Acromantula representing the eight soul shards of the Dark Lord and…_

She decided on a two-fold method in the end, doing Arithmancy on one side of the paper and writing out Runology on the other. Perhaps Hermione would ask for multiple sheafs of parchment once this one was filled. In a practice that unsettlingly reminded Hermione of Viktor, Dolohov enjoyed watching her read, study, lose herself in theory. And if he asked, she could say they were theoretical equations she’d thought of at Hogwarts and then launch into one of the many she’d actually had to distract him.

Yes, that would do.

  
Cashmere ran the length of her throat in slow, sensual brushes, raising her consciousness out of the darkness of sleep. For a bare second she floated, all loose limbs and gentle warmth, and then she felt the weight of another against her side, his mouth breathing soft kisses on her tingling skin.

“Wake up, love.” he hummed. 

It was cold above the surface of her dreams and Hermione wanted to drift back down. “It’s still dark out,” she beseeched, steeping her voice in the rough packaging of sleep. Perhaps he’d have mercy and let her alone enough drift off again.

His nose buried in her hair, breath galvanizing the nerves of her ear. “Yes, but we have a visitor and the damned man won’t take no for an answer.”

“A visitor?” Curiosity pricked at the haze of sleep. 

“Yes.” Antonin pressed against the length of her body, clearly at war with himself. “Unfortunately. Put on your dressing gown and come to the sitting room.”

His tongue breached the cavern of his mouth to slide over the curve of her ear and she shivered.

“Antonin, I can’t get up with you doing that.”

His warm chuckle was low against the salt of her skin. “I’m already up.”

A palm to his shoulder shoved lightly. “We’ll never be rid of our guest if you keep that up.”

The gleam of his wet lower lip caught the firelight. He was pouting, playful sparks glimmering in his eyes as he slowly rolled to sit. “You enjoy being right too much, _katyonok_. You’re lucky I ever allow it.”

Pavlovian twists knotted her stomach at his use of Russian, frissions of fearful arousal chilling her mind. “I know.” He left her as she laced the belt of her velvet currant robe and slid into bedroom slippers to protect her feet from the manor’s cool floors.

This same scene from two months before layered itself over the present. She’d still been in the muggle clothing from the battle, bloodied and bruised and numb from pushing away her grief. Warm light licked at the hallway wall and floor, drawing her to her destination, but this time the dry crackling was accompanied by low voices.

“It is a task assigned to me by the Dark Lord himself, you heard him,” asserted a baritone that prodded at her memory.

“I highly doubt he meant it for the mudbloods, Severus. Go see to the Pureblood wards and your own little halfblood. I can care for Hermione on my own.”

The incident wooden floor creaked as she approached the entrance and both men snapped toward her. “Er, hello?”

“Ah, Miss Granger.” Snape swept around the furniture to gesture her forward. “Come. I must cast some diagnostics and such on you. The Dark Lord has commanded that I see to the health of the wards once monthly to ensure they are being kept properly.”

Dolohov bared his teeth at the implication. “I keep her properly.”

“I’m sure, Dolohov, but I will not question the Dark Lord’s choice of words. Do so at your own risk.” He swirled his wand in a series of complex motions and colored lights overlaid her robe, throat, even one apparent from the corner of one eye. 

There was mostly a deep, pulsing violet blue, though one one her shoulder was closer to red, and a green spot over her groin that made her flush in the dim light.

Snape sneered over his shoulder at the hovering Death Eater. “She is covered in contusions and lacerations, Dolohov. Do you see the little flecks of green?” There were some on her arms and hips and sides as well. “That is deep tissue bruising.” His eyes were lost in the shadows of the night, but by the direction of his gaze, he was staring at the glowing veridian at her core. “Dear Merlin, give the girl some rest between sessions before you permanently damage her.”

“That may be easy enough for you, Snape, but some of us are not sized for gentle lovemaking. She is not bruised only from frequency.”

The Potions master bit back the venom he’d nearly spewed, mouth shutting as he glanced up at his patient’s face. “Once a month, Antonin.” He drew two vials from his voluminous robes, holding them between the fingers of one hand. “The red is healing, obviously. The blue should help with preventing some of this.” We gestured to all of her. “You are still quite malnourished, Miss Granger. You have no reason to starve yourself now, is that understood?” 

She plucked the potions, one in each hand, and stared at the orange light reflected on his eyes. “Yes, sir.” 

The healing potion went down first, and she savored the taste to ruminate on the ingredients. There was nothing unusual she could detect. When she uncorked the second, a sweet, sage-like perfume wafted to her nose, and when she swallowed it down, slight bitterness lingered on her tongue. Artemisia, or mugwort, was a known abortifacient in the muggle world and was used in potions both to prevent and rid one of pregnancy. Severus Snape, Death Eater and horror of Hogwarts, had just granted her prayer for a contraceptive.

“Thank you, professor.”

He considered her for a moment, darkness half-shadowing his expression. “I am no longer your professor, Miss Granger. And I am merely performing the duty assigned me by the Dark Lord.” Slick black hair brushed his shoulder as he tilted his head, eyes narrowing. “Nonetheless, you are welcome.” He pivoted back toward the hearth, casting Floo powder from a sack in the pocket from which he’d produced the potions. “Next month, Dolohov, I expect better. Headmaster’s office, Hogwarts.” The fire flashed as he stepped out of sight.

“Fucking cowardly little shit.” Dolohov growled and snatched the vials from her hands, casting them into the fireplace. The lines of his face softened and he took her cheek in hand. “Would you like me to heal you after sex, pet? I did not think of it, as we’ve not yet gotten to my true cruelties. But you are a frail little thing despite your leonine spirit.”

Horror crawled up her throat, skittered down her back, but Hermione stayed still in the face of his revelation. Sure, he had whipped her once, but that had been a punishment. Since then, he often bit or scratched until her blood welled, and bruises were now a constant on her skin. He choked, slapped, pulled her hair. How much more ruthless could he get?

“Something to consider.” He kissed the corner of her mouth. “Come. Let us get you to bed, my sweet.”

In the quiet of the night the countdown began.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Snape gave her contraceptives in one of the potions. Yayyyyy.


	24. Ruby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An event approaches.

Hermione had expected him to do something that night, put Antonin merely tucked the covers over her and stroked his lips across her forehead before bidding her goodnight. She imagined she could feel the whiplash scars on her back tingling in remembrance of pain. She had been such an idiot, to think this would be the extent of his sadism. He compared himself only to Voldemort in cruelty, of course the worst was still on the horizon.

There had to be ways to forestall it. 

_ He wants me to get pregnant. _ The word was less vulgar now that she knew it wasn’t possible. Snape had been clever in his delivery and Dolohov would hardly suspect she’d taken the potion under his own supervision. He wouldn’t know it was impossible.  _ I can use that. Tell him the trauma might induce miscarriage or keep my body from capitulating. _ Stress could do that. 

The argument lingered in the background at his every touch, ready to spring forth should she need it; but Antonin kept to his usual antics the following days.

“We are attending a gala tonight.” The sudden words snapped her from her ruminations on the calculations that had started eating parchment. 

“Oh. Why?”

He quirked a brow at her. “A celebration of sorts.”

Hermione frowned. “No, I meant why am I going? I’m not a Death Eater or one of the social elite or anything.”

Dolohov palmed her hand in one of his own so it disappeared beneath the calloused heat. “You are mine, and I wish for you to accompany me.”

_ He is delusional.  _ “Of course,” she agreed smoothly. “I assume Tippy will be assisting me?”

“Yes, love. Whatever you need.” The pad of his thumb stroked her wrist. “I imagine you will want to start when we finish here. We will leave promptly at nine.”

She swallowed the remnants of the water in her goblet and nodded. “I suppose I should get started then. I would hate to leave you waiting on me.” Before she could slip away, he raised her hand palm-up to kiss her pulse point. 

“Until then.”

It was a quarter to seven; she had time before Tippy would arrive. Hermione shut the door softly as she stepped into her room, lightly padding to her bed. The coin was now kept in a little space of the wooden bedframe. She dropped to her knees and slid it out from where it rested between box spring and wood. 

“0000-31-7-98”

Midnight tonight it would be Harry’s birthday. Her heart wrenched, flushing icy anguish through her veins. Voldemort was throwing a victory party for Harry Potter’s birthday. It should be a time for celebration, to wash away the tragedy of the previous year. Instead she would be a spot of Gryffindor red in a sea of snakes who were gorging on the dead. 

She sank to the rug, curling in the shadow of the bed as the waves crashed over her. This time last year she’d been at the Burrow preparing for Bill Weasley’s wedding to Fleur. Now she didn’t know if either of them were alive. Ron wasn’t. Neither was Fred. But there was still Charlie and Ginny and Molly and Arthur and poor George and even Percy, who had finally shown his true colors at the last battle. 

And now she was trapped in a twisted game of house with Antonin bloody Dolohov, praying Severus Snape was really working for the Order all along, and the only survivors she knew of were Michael Corner and Neville, who was possibly worse off than she was. If that was possible.

Despair was a deep well and she fell like Alice, deeper and deeper, more lost by the second, until the chime of her little clock rang the hour.

“I have to get ready,” she reminded herself.

She wanted to stay there, to remember her friends and console herself by immersing in memories of when life was better. When she had to repair Harry’s glasses for him because he never remembered the spell. When Ron called her mental for her fear of expulsion. 

He hadn’t understood. At the time it had hurt, but now she smiled in sorrowful fondness. Hogwarts was the only place she hadn’t been the freak of nature who made things happen when she was upset; that was unfortunately often, as she hadn’t many friends growing up before her first accidental magic. Children could be cruel in their own way, and Hermione’s parents had encouraged her in ways that severely backfired with others. They’d all been intellectuals and would share any tidbit of knowledge that came their way or correct one another with ease. And once the other children started calling her a know-it=all, well, why not lean into it? 

So she’d become a mouthy little swot in retaliation. In retrospect, she’d only been hurting herself.

But Harry and (eventually) Ron accepted her even at her worst (mostly; Ronald could be ridiculous). They became more than her friends. Harry’s fight was her fight, and Ron was there, had come back despite thinking she could never love him the way he loved her. Now she’d never get to try.

“Bloody Hell.”

She tucked away the coin and went to take a bath before Tippy came.

In a rare showing, Dolohov was not clothing her in silk. Instead the carmine gown had a skirt composed of billowing, voluminous organza. It had a train of waving folds that would require her to hold the dress like she was in some Harlequin romance novel, but it was pretty all the same. Tippy assisted her into it and she sighed as she realized the neckline was another plunging vee that displayed more chest than she preferred. Hermione’s breasts weren’t particularly large. So she did not understand Antonin’s delight in revealing such a scandalous amount of cleavage. But, ah! The scar. He delighted in seeing that terrible permanent blight he’d set upon her skin.

The thick straps threatened to fall from her shoulders, but the little elf spelled them into place with a deft hand, then started on the rest of her. Her curls were arranged in artful wildness on top of her head, loose locks trailing her shoulders and framing her throat and face. Her lips were screaming vermillion, her eyes framed by lashes she worried were too heavy for her eyes, eyeshadow and some shimmery powder glimmering golden on her skin. 

She nearly cried when golden earrings dangling ruby teardrops were attached to each lobe. The ostentation of it all was ridiculous. The necklace was a curved circlet of gold that laid perfectly against her body, another ruby drop hanging from double loops to rest in the notch of her throat.

“Beautiful.” Antonin stood in the doorway staring at her with reverence in his eyes. “Like a wild rose in a manicured garden.” He strode toward her, laying a hand on her cinched waist. “I have a gift for you.”

Hermione lifted a sculpted brow. “A gift?”

From his pocket he produced a little black box that fit perfectly in his palm. “You see, my great grandmother was quite fond of the color red, and her husband, my great grandfather, commissioned a ring fashioned for her with the most beautiful ruby he could find. It is not gold, but I still thought it might suit you.”

She had not imagined his ostentation could increase. She was wrong. The center stone had to be nearly a carat and surrounded by pear cut diamonds so it emulated a cold, stone flower. It was set in platinum, if she had to guess. 

“She was a small woman as well.” Dolohov slid it onto the fourth finger of her left hand where it fit as though made for her. His lips twitched and pleasure exuded from him. “As though it was meant for you.”

The action wiped the slate of her mind clean. She stared up at him all wide eyes and agape lips. His pupils were blown as he laid a thumb against her bottom lip.

“Well?”

She blinked up at him in a haze of confusion as tumultuous warnings rang through her skull. “Thank you, Antonin. It’s-- it’s lovely.”

“Yet you are more lovely still,” he purred, looming down to kiss her lips, the softest brush to not smear her lipstick. “Come, pet. We must go before I decide to ravish you instead of sharing your beauty.”

_ He’s demented,  _ she wondered as she trailed along toward the hearth. She didn’t hear their destination as the fire roared green.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I still have like six more chapters written and am working on another. So here's another update!
> 
> As stated before, you can find ways to follow me on the link in my profile! I have twitter, email, etc. Also, I research outfits way too much for this fic, but I can't help myself.


	25. Haunted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The party.

She viewed the castle through a shimmering veil that scattered the light and created a tremulous illusion that she was staring at a piece of art. It shattered as the tears finally spilled down her cheeks.

_ I can’t do this. _

“You’re alright, love.” Dolohov turned her to face him and dabbed at the wet spots with a burgundy kerchief. “Shush, none of that. This is why I did not tell you before. You are better at handling situations as they come.”

_ How in the Hell would you know that?  _ The scathing nature of her thoughts shone through, because he smiled and tapped her chin.

“There’s my lioness. Shall we enter the snakepit?”

Hermione nodded and took his arm, allowing him to direct her into the place she’d once called home.

It was the same, though vastly different. The entry all the way to the Great Hall were milling with adult witches and wizards in fine apparel. There were fewer portraits on the walls, and it felt… darker. Like she could feel the recent deaths against her skin.

The Great Hall was bereft of the House hourglasses, the House tables. Instead, high circular tables sat on the periphery of the stone floor, leaving the center with a shining black overlay for dancing. The staff table was still there, and Voldemort sat on what could only be called a throne behind it.

As Antonin navigated them through the throng, a subtle buzz started at the base of her skull. It was the prickling sensation that someone is watching. Hermione’s gaze flitted to either side and she caught The slight turn of chins, the darting eyes, the mouthing lowly to companions.

She was noticed. Of course she was noticed. She was Hermione Granger, the mudblood, the surviving member of the trio at the heart of the fight against You-Know-Who. And she was walking freely beside Antonin Dolohov, known Death Eater. Did they imagine she had turned traitor? Or that she’d been broken and truly was the pet Dolohov longed for her to be?

Her jaw firmed and she raised to her full height, still paltry beside Dolohov, even in her golden heels. He rubbed her fingers with his thumb, shooting her one of his eerily affectionate smiles. He proudly marched her to the Dark Lord, assisting her down as he knelt beside her.

“My Lord, Miss Granger and I are here to offer you our congratulations.”

She bristled, but kept her eyes down and features still.

“Is that so, Miss Granger?” That serene voice trailed over her shoulders like a snake, draping her in his intense stare.

“As Antonin says, my Lord,” she affirmed.

The unbridled laughter that followed was chilling and sharp. “Then why are you so thorny, little rose?”

Pride and shame warred to flame her cheeks and she took a deep breath to calm herself before speaking. “He was still my friend, my Lord.”

“A satisfactory answer.” She could feel his consideration trailing over them both. “Drink and make merry.”

With another, “my Lord,” Antonin aided her to her feet and they joined the party. 

“Would you like a drink?” He plucked two slender flutes from a wandering tray and offered one to her.

“Thank you.” It was champagne, sparkling wine, whatever the correct term was as she did not know the region of its origin, but it was light on her tongue and sweetly tart. She would need it to endure this night.

He led her on his arm with all the assurance of a man comfortable with power and used to dolled-up women on his arm. It was contrary to facts she knew: that Dolohov was a lifelong bachelor, and that he’d spent more than a decade in Azkaban.

_ Perhaps this was his life prior to Azkaban _ . 

She knew little about his life. He’d shared bits of his past, crumbs about his childhood that made her suspect it had fed into his cruelty, hints of his adolescence and how those friendships had shaped him, it was all in Spartan detail. He was an intelligent man and had surely had an illustrious career. 

Before she could work up the nerve to ask, her voice came out of the milling crowd.

“Granger!” Draco Malfoy sauntered toward her in dress robes far more flattering than the set that had made him a vampire in fourth year. Charcoal trousers, sharp grey over robe, a silver and black fleur-de-lis patterned bowtie. He almost looked approachable in the seething mass of strangers. “Red? Really? Could you be more of a Gryffindor princess?”

“Draco.” Antonin pivoted to greet the young man, voice cool. “Princess, hm? Perhaps I shall get you a tiara to match the title.” He stroked her cheek in a show of possession.

She rolled her eyes toward the starry ceiling. “I don’t think I could bear that, Antonin. Please don’t.”

“Only because you ask so prettily.”

She huffed. “Malfoy, you look well.” At the older man’s sudden tension, Hermione pursed her lips. “He’s hardly going to steal me away in a coat pocket, Antonin. You’re a fully forged Death Eater and he is still a boy.”

“Ouch.” Malfoy laid a hand over the pressed white of his shirt.

“Do you want him to murder you?” she quipped, nodding as his pale face turned ashen. “That’s what I thought. Anyway… I hate to spoil the illusion for you, Malfoy, but I do not choose my own attire.”

Meaning came quick to her former classmate, unsurprising as he was only second to her in academics. 

“Hermione is a prize to be flaunted.” He punctuated the statement with a kiss to her throat, stubble like sandpaper on her skin. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, young Malfoy, I am taking the lady to dance.” 

The string quartet set near the front of the Hall had just started a lively waltz. Dolohov held her waist, one of her hands engulfed in his own. For such a large, violent man, he was light on his feet and self-assured in his leading. She spun in perfect time with the fluttering of the melody. And when that song died, he led her straight into the second.

At the start of the third, Hermione’s head swam with the twirling of herself and the spinning dancers and she laid a hand on his chest. “Please. I’m quite thirsty.”

His deep chuckled thrummed against her hand. “Very well, love. Let’s get you more champagne.” Dolohov guided her aside and procured a new champagne flute. 

He was as content as she’d ever seen him, except perhaps in those odd post-coital moments that clung to her memory like flobberworm slime. He leaned against the wall with one shoulder and surveyed the currents of party goers with a curious flush in his cheeks. He was  _ happy _ . 

“You’re a good dancer,” she said after a long stretch of watching him.

“Thank you, love.” Antonin smirked at her, grey eyes roving her slightly perspiring form in appreciation. “My mother raised me to be a gentleman and, barring a few exceptions, I like to think of myself as such. She would have liked you.”

The floor grew less steady under her feet. “Thank you.”

He threaded a hand through the curls at the base of her head and bent to faintly kiss her lips, pulling back to gaze at her with eyes shining in adoration.

“Well, Antonin, I am pleasantly surprised.” The wry voice interrupted her racing heart.

“Good evening Severus. Why is that?”

“Miss Granger looks positively radiant. A vast improvement,” he said evenly. 

Michael stood awkwardly beside him in matching black dress robes. “Hello, Hermione.”

“Michael.” There were still bruisingly dark circles around his eyes, but he was otherwise unchanged. “It’s good to see you again.”

“You too.” His hands were tucked in his pockets, shoulders shrinking in on himself. “Mister Dolohov, you as well.”

“Mister Corner.” His pleasantry seemed genuine as he said, “Good evening. Where is your other shadow, Severus? Did he find someone else to cling to?”

Snape’s dark eyes narrowed. “No. Mister Zabini is currently wandering around trying to romance any woman he can find. Though you’ll be relieved to hear that your pet Gryffindor is safe from such attempts.”

“Yes,” Dolohov agreed. “It seems his generation is afraid I’ll kill anyone who crosses me.”

“Won’t you?” she chimed in. He wove an arm around her and tugged her to his side.

“For you? Without hesitation.” Purred words sent gooseflesh down her spine. 

It was nearing midnight and Hermione’s heart had become a hum of anticipation, beating like hummingbird wings in her chest. Would something happen, she wondered. Midnight was the time indicated on the coin, but what could possibly happen here, in the presence of Darkness itself? 

Dolohov danced with her again and again, though she managed to wriggle away for a drink and a bite to keep herself going. Narcissa Malfoy had insisted on greeting her and Hermione was both heartened by the show of esteem and uneasy as the woman’s husband stared down at her with fiery abhorrence seething behind the ice wall of his grey veneer.

Her keeper did not approve, his arm tightening on her waist as he glared back at the Malfoy patriarch. But the pairs soon parted, Narcissa exchanging a cheek kiss with Hermione before taking to the dance floor.

Now the rotating couples were falling out of the dance, the milling throng turning toward the head table and the Dark Lord, all in anticipation of  _ something _ .

“Granger.” Antonin was speaking with another Death Eater and Blaise Zabini and Michael Corner had drifted toward her in the crowd. “You’re looking fit tonight.” His eyes were just a shade lighter than black, candlelight reflecting warming around his pupils as he eyed her. “Seen Longbottom lately?”

That was unexpected. Her shoulder blades jolted down and she returned his study. “Neville? No. How would I have seen him?”

“No? Hm. I see him from time to time. He’s well-placed, Longbottom. Now that the Lestranges are bored with him, he’s mostly left trailing them like a puppy or locked away in their manor.”

“Do a lot of people go there?” His words itched at the surface of her mind, digging toward thoughts she’d pushed back for safety.

Zabini smiled slyly and winked. “Oh, you know. Lots of people want favor with Lady Lestrange, being as she is a  _ particular _ favorite of the Dark Lord.” If she hadn’t caught on from the words, his suggestive brow waggle would have done the trick. 

She blinked butterfly wing lashes and considered carefully. “Do  _ you _ visit Lestrange Manor regularly?”

He gave a Gallic shrug. “She’s a beautiful woman and seems to enjoy a little attention. Sometimes I just stumble upon Longbottom though. Funny lad. Always struck me as an odd little trio, you know. Him and Lovegood and the Weasley chit. Always plotting away. Almost like you lot.”

_ What is he saying? Is he really implying he’s on our side? But how could I possibly trust  _ him _? _ Carefully.

“Michael,” she prompted. “Do you ever tag along with Blaise?”

The smaller boy gave his own shrug, this one tight and nervous. “I have seen Neville once or twice. They don’t like me alone with him,” his bright blue eyes darting suspiciously at the surrounding attendants. “For obvious reasons. So I’m always monitored if I’ll be around one of the-- you know-- rebels.”

“Oh.” Lines deepened between her brows.

His expression morphed just a touch to one lighter, almost hopeful. “But Blaise here, and oddly Headmaster Snape, they both have been  _ helpful _ in giving me a cause, something to do. And, yeah, I’ve gone to Lestrange Manor with them. Other places too.”

The information settled like a blanket of snow over her and she nodded. “You know, Neville owes me a Galleon, kind of. It belonged to-- well-- anyway, I just hope he still has it.”

“He does,” Michael murmured.

It was then the Dark Lord rose and silence corralled the Great Hall like the coils of a snake.

“My friends.” His silken voice spread so even the farthest in the crowd could hear him. “Midnight comes and it will bring a day that once had great meaning for our enemies. It was a day of hope, a day to celebrate another year in the life of The Boy Who Lived.” The title evoked a hushed tension in the guests, like they all held their breath as one. “Harry Potter! But now he is gone. His soul is with his mother and father, just as it was meant to be. 

“And this day is ours. It is fitting that we stand upon these hallowed grounds, consecrated with our own blood, the blood of our brethren, and the blood of our enemies, and declare our victory! We have overcome the muggle-lovers such as Albus Dumbledore--” and the Marked ones hissed-- “We have cut down those with the power to destroy us. We have crushed those who welcome mudbloods and blood traitors. 

“The only survivors of those misled souls, those indoctrinated with shame for their own magical heritage, belong to us. They are ours to mold, ours to cull, ours to turn to the true wizarding path. So that one day, the descendants of those who survived the Battle of these grounds, of this castle, can proudly declare that they are wizards and witches, that no muggle filth infects their minds, that more than anything,  _ magic is might _ , and power is the only currency that matters.

“My friends, tonight we toast to Harry Potter, we toast to the Order of the Phoenix, and we toast to the challenge they provided us, the challenge to prove that we alone are fit to rule this world.

“To Harry Potter, The Boy Who Died!”

“To Harry Potter!” cried the ardent masses, downing their glasses as they cheered.

Twelve deep bellows rang through the room, striking the hour of a new day.

In her heart, Hermione felt a vital chord plucked apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My writing has slowed down, but I am still slowly trucking away.


	26. Tender Mercies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rest of the party. Dolohov is losing patience.

Autumn bloomed around her, the earthly tang of freshly turned leaves, the hint of pine everpresent, and instead of the usual spice, the tart lightness of expensive champagne. It was crisp on the tongue, as Antonin had downed a crystal flute before he enveloped her completely. His tongue roved languidly over her teeth, front and back as though taking inventory. He stroked the roof of her mouth, tickling over the sensitive ridges and coaxed her own tongue with strong, sure caresses until the alcohol thrumming through her own veins mixed into a dangerous cocktail of thorny fear and bubbling lust with an adrenaline chaser.

He pulled back, lips red and swollen from eating at her mouth and licked his lips as though to savor her taste. “You are such a perfect little Gryffindor doll tonight, just wild enough to inspire thoughts of how you might look with all that pretty makeup smeared across your tear-stained face.” The blazing vermillion of her lipstick across his mouth was obscenely fascinating and she faintly wondered what that meant about her.

“Well, you seem to be enjoying yourself.” The party had become near-revel once Lord Voldemort finished his speech. There were couples brazenly interlocked against the walls, laughing twos and threes and more darting out the Great Hall to hide their tangling in hidden alcoves and darkened classrooms. Some guests still milled about the floor, others danced in champagne-fueled whimsy.

But the man staring them down was sober as Hell, his steely eyes reflected in the carelessly perfect control of himself from every silver hair to the sole of his dragonhide boots. 

“Lucius,” Dolohov drawled. “Do you have nothing better to do than watch me ravish my pet?”

Brow and lips both twitched upward, as good as a smile from the icy man. “It is quite the show. But no, I was merely curious about how you tamed the little shrew.”

_ Shakespeare again, how curious _ . And from the great Lucius Malfoy.

Her eyes flashed amber in the warm light, nostrils flared and fists drawing tight.

“As I told the Dark Lord, Lucius. Hermione is a very clever girl.” Dolohov was still holding her, fingers trailing her body to map out his territory. “She understands actions have consequences, and she has seen how much better it is to comply than to fight. Haven’t you, kitten?”

Blood rushed to heat her cheeks at this too-intimate confession, but she nodded stiffly.

“I am afraid I did not hear that, Miss Granger.” Oh, how she loathed that condescending voice.

“Yes,” she snapped. “I have learned.”

While Antonin stroked her cheek, the elder Malfoy’s sickle-silver eyes narrowed in consideration. “There’s a fire in you yet. How nice to see it hasn’t been extinguished.” The Death Eater still wrapped around her favored him with suspicion. “I will leave you to it then. I look forward to seeing how Miss Granger endures your more…  _ tender mercies. _ ”

“Insufferable man,” Dolohov grunted as the pale man faded into the crowd. “Perhaps I should take you somewhere more private. As much as I enjoy flaunting you, I am unwilling to share our more intimate moments. Come. The Dark Lord is allowing a select few to Floo home.”

She had no choice but to scurry alongside him, his grip firm and his strides long. When they reached the familiar office, she did not want to look, did not want to see the changes to this place that had once housed greatness.

He cast the powder into the fire and called out for his home, folding himself around her as they passed through the network, her eyes locked on the shadows across his chest.

Hermione was trembling when he finally guided her out of the hearth. Her feet walked the familiar path to her room, but they passed by her lonely door to enter his domain. 

It was dark, swathed in shadows from overbearing furniture. The posts of his bed towered like tree trunks attempting to make the room into a miniature Dark Forest. The windows displayed thick, velvet midnight blue drapes, and high backed leather settees surrounded the hearth like a sitting room. 

That was all she could take in as the fire roared to life and Antonin shoved her face into the duvet.

“You have no idea what you do to me,  _ katyonok. _ ” He was leaning over her bent form, heat radiating through the thick robes over him. “I want to destroy the delicious innocence you still exude, to turn that fire to sweet submission and shameful lust. I want to bleed you while you come, begging for my cock to fill you up. I want to rebuild you into the perfection I see when you surrender to me. Let me do that,  _ katyonok. _ Let me remake you, rebuild that fire to burn only for me.”

His breath stirred around her ear, words slithering like serpents in the garden promising a freedom she had never imagined: the freedom to simply  _ be _ . That was what he desired of her and in that moment, addled with drink and sorrow and lust, she was tempted.

And Antonin savored her weakness. He tugged her hips further on the bed and ground his length against her. “I am going to hurt you tonight.” His tongue flicked against the sensitive curve of her ear. “And I am going to make you enjoy it.”

Fresh air tingled over her as he stood upright, then a hardened palm pressed to the naked expanse of her upper back. Organza chafed against her skin as he tore open the back of the gown with a dry, spindly rip. He pulled it to her thighs and let the many-layered raiment drift to the floor. The lace of her knickers tore at her next, and she was bare but for the gaudy symbols of his ownership. 

“So beautiful, my sweet girl.” His fingers were gentle stroking over her back. “It should be infuriating, how lovely you are, how brilliant, how  _ desirable. _ A perfect mudblood, a goddess from filth. But it makes me crave all the more.” He drew across the whip scars with tenderness reserved for beloved intimacy. “How lovely you are when you break for me, when you  _ yield _ for me.” He traced the golden band around her throat. “Let us break you again and see how you rise.”

With that, his palm met the flesh of her backside with a resounding slap. The sharp heat of the pain flinched through her, a plaintiff cry muffled between her lips.

“Your arse is lovely with the welt of my hand on it. Did that hurt, kitten?”

The quiet seethed until she said, “Yes.”

Another slap followed, the meat of her backside quivering with the force of the blow. The third was right where her thighs met her cheeks and she startled at the nettling pain that lanced at her core. 

Low chuckling followed her whine and he smoothed his hands over the throbbing flesh. “That’s it. That’s my lovely girl. All you need do is endure. Dolohov massaged the globes of her arse, soothing on the raised skin and near-bruising on the rest. He separated them to tease at her slit, mocking her as he spread the slick gathered there. “I’ll make a masochist of you yet.” His hands lifted, then cracked against both cheeks in a smack so sharp it arched her back. 

Fingers tangled in her hair and he was draped over her again, snaking a hand across her taut throat. “I am going to hurt you and fuck you and make you  _ mine _ in your very soul.” Weak little hairs ripped as he wrenched her up, the vice disappearing from her throat.

“Stand on the bed.” He’d transformed, eyes flat and the command cold. Hermione scrambled up with trembling limbs. “Hands up. Wrists against the frame. Come on now, love, tippy toes to reach it. You can do it.” Her body was taut enough her skin was stretching over her bones, but she finally could lay her wrists against the stretch of wood overhead. “ _ Incarcerous _ .”

She had expected it, but still hissed at the binding holding her to the frame of the bed, toes struggling for purchase.

“You are tempting like this, helpless and waiting for whatever I might do next.” Antonin paced the length of floor before the bed, eyes speculative as he considered his options. “I want to see your blood stain my sheets. But I think I want whatever I do to be a surprise.” A flash of wand and heavy darkness fell over her eyes. 

“No, please,” she beseeched, straining against the rope. “I-I don’t want to be blindfolded.”

A cool, flat length of metal slid over her thigh and she jumped, swaying away from it as she tried to manage her body’s movement. “I want you blindfolded, therefore you will be blind. Do you feel this,  _ lyubimaya? _ Can you guess what it is?”

She could. The sensations shook loose memories of screaming until her throat was raw and her voice failed, memories of shame as that hateful word opened her flesh, and all the fear and hatred and agony of thrashing on the Malfoy’s floor.

Tears wet the night-soft cloth as she shook her head. “Please, not that. Not that, please.”

The sharp edge tingled over the curve of her hip. “Oh, sweet girl, this is not a cursed blade. I will heal away your scars and hold you while you cry. Knives can be fun, love. Let me show you. Be my good girl.” Warm satin softness brushed against her hip bone and his next words tickled too near her core. “It would please me greatly. And I will take care of everything.” 

The blade dragged sharply across flesh near his mouth and gasped at the parting of her skin just paper-cut deep. His mouth hovered over it and then he pressed his lips and  _ sucked _ , lapping at the tiny spill of blood, groaning at the tang of iron and the taste of her.

“Is this so terrible, pet?” His fingers now calmed the sting, stroking reverently. “I will take care of everything. Let me. Give me the control. Just in this moment, beloved, and I will reward you for giving me control. I will pleasure you, worship you, take care of you. Just for this moment, for this little slice of time.” His lips trailed her body as he spoke, knife nicking little lines across her as it slid over her skin. “Say it, kitten. Say you will surrender to me. Say yes.”

She was still crying, but the tears were silent and fewer now. The tickling trace of the knife edge woke her nerves with aroused anxiety. Her nipples tightened in the cool air and she was awash in sensation, awareness heightened in her body as her sight had been removed from her. 

She was helpless. There was this one choice, and Dolohov would carve out his pleasure on her skin even if she said no. And then she’d keep the signs of his game in little scars to add to her collection. 

If she gave in it would only be for this moment. It did not mean she wasn’t herself. She would still be Hermione Granger, Gryffindor, but he would heal her and someday perhaps she could forget whatever he’d taken from her this night. 

And she wasn’t giving up. Not at all. As flashes of her potential allies danced before her sightless eyes, hope flared in her very bones. They were still fighting, hiding their insurrections and waiting for the time to act. They were playing the game; she could play too.

“Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I only have three more chapters written after this so far, so I need to pick up the pace again.


	27. Surrender

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione gives in to Antonin's dark desires.

The room room stopped breathing, the air in it stifling in the stagnant walls. The only sounds were the slide of her feet against the duvet. Then--

“You are truly my Galatea, my goddess breathed to life.” He kissed his way up her body, empty hand twisting a hardened nipple until she groaned. Hermione could still feel him when he pulled away. The point of the knife settled on the notch of her throat and dragged down. When it passed the delicate ridge of bone it rolled to the edge proper and she shrieked as it sliced a clear line down her abdomen.

“There, there, kitten.” His fingers trailed through the welling blood, painting her screaming scarlet. “It’s a surface wound, see?” Dolohov played at the clean edges of her wound. “I told you we would progress slowly, no? I’m hardly going to stab you, pet. No, you certainly would howl at that.” Wet slurps sounded from his direction; he was sucking her blood from his fingers. 

When his tongue swept the length of the cut she held a dry sob at the sting. He was moaning, lapping at her with all the enthusiasm he had shown elsewhere. And then his fingers danced to her apex, rubbing sweet circles on her clit and it drowned her in sensation.

Two slick fingers stretched her as they entered, thumb taking over the play of the little bundle of nerves. Sweet Circe, it was wrong. He stroked that spot inside her in time to the delicious strokes of his thumb, and his tongue working as though to part the connective tissue that held her together. And the sting fed into the pleasure until she was throbbing, panting, whimpering.

“Didn’t I promise you pleasure? Hm?” The words were prefaced by a lick striping down her stomach. “See how the pain feeds it? It is addictive, no? Soon you will crave this, need it for your release.”

The next slice crossed one thigh from above the knee over the curve of her quadricep. All the while his fingers twisted and plunged inside of her and his thumb worked just a touch too gently, just a little too slow. And she arched into it, hissing between clenched teeth as the lap of stinging, sharp pain stirred the pleasure, curling into it until the two were inseparable, a braided rope of pleasurable pain.

“Fuck. You are glorious. A banquet of possibilities.” The warm pressure of his presence faded, the dark euphoria of his fingers leaving her empty, and she dropped on the bed in a whooshing tumble that spun her head until she lost all sense of direction. “I need you, my sweet girl. I need to be inside of you.”

The sound of clothing rustling, buttons and buckles popping accompanied the crackle of the fire. Then he was on her, kissing her with a terrifying passion, his hard body seeking to meld his flesh to her own. He kicked her knees apart and thrust into her, too thick, too much, but her senses were all mixed up and she moaned, hips jolting toward him. 

Antonin tore his lips away, panting over her. “You,” he groaned as he snapped his hips once more to sheath himself inside of her. “There are no words, kitten, to describe how delicious you taste. The silk of your mouth, the drooling slick of your cunt, your filthy blood, even your little rosebud. I would live off the flavors of your body if I could.” He began a rolling rhythm against, each thrust stabbing against her cervix in a whirl of pleasurable pain that had her sobbing dry moans.

A large hand massaged roughly at one breast, vacillating between twisting her nipple and digging into the tender flesh. His pubis slammed against her clit with every thrust, the rough curls rubbing the bundle so she rocked with him for more. 

_ There is no wrong in this. I’m playing the game and building a Heaven in Hell’s despair.  _

And it felt like Heaven. Or Hell, temptingly delicious, sinful delight.

Pain lanced through the curve of her waist from the dip on her right nearly to her navel. Antonin slid his palm through the sticky fluid and smeared it up over her breast. His mouth collided with her own and she could taste metallic flavor lingering on his tongue.

His pace picked up and she heard a soft thump as he tossed aside the knife, grabbing her waist with bruising fingers to slam her hips against his own.

He was spewing Russian, snarling as he spoke, and her core tightened, the sound vibrating through her. It was dirty talk, she knew. Hermione cried out, shaking with want.

“Please, please.” Was that her? So desperate, toeing the precipice. 

Full throated laughter crashed into her and he was bending toward her face once more. “‘Please,’ kitten? ‘Please,’  _ what _ ?”

Hermione choked on a sob, the irritation at his mocking just feeding the miserable need. “More, I need more.”

She moaned as his mouth dipped to her sensitive throat. “More? What does my little mudblood whore need more of, hm? Does she need more pleasure? For me to stroke her pretty little clit? More pain? More of my hard cock filling her up? Tell me what you need,  _ katyonok _ . Tell me and I will give you what you need.”

“Everything.” It was a broken word, but she wrapped her legs around him and writhed. 

His growl vibrated through her like a deep purr. “Needy girl. I’ll give you what you want.” He rose over her again, pulling her still bound arms to her core. “Stroke your clit for me, pet. That’s it. Doesn’t that feel good?” She nodded, mouth lax as she focused on the sensations she produced and how they mingled with the thick cock-- such a dirty word-- stroking her insides. One of her hands was pressed so far between them she could feel the strange length on the out-strokes. 

Her back arched with the flood of pleasurable hormones building inside of her, She was so close to tumbling down the deep well of release, so close she could feel it in her toes.

Her head whipped against the luxurious sheets, cheek stinging from the pain, bones aching from the force of the slap. The skin throbbed. Then his thumb was petting her carotid before the curve between that and his forefinger pressed into her and her vision started sparking behind the blindfold.

It was with a mix of slapping her tender cheeks and choking the oxygen out of her mind that sent her diving down, down, down.

She quaked with it, shivering sparks throughout her body, full-throated moans until he locked them away. It rushed over her, her walls fluttering around the hardness that kept pumping, that eased that deep itch inside, that wrung pleasure from her until she twitched and whimpered in a limp heap.

His Russian was softer now, coaxing, and he slid his arms around her to meld them together once more, a hand supporting her head of curls and the other around her waist until there was nowhere that was not filled with him.

When his thrusts became staccato little aftershocks shot through her, walls fluttering in remembrance of the pleasure as he emptied into her with a long groan.

He lowered her gently, curled her to his chest, sated but still eyeing her bloody, battered body with delight. His thick lips curved into a smile and he kissed her forehead as he came down from the high of orgasm. She expected him to want post-coital conversation, but he just held her to him as they both drifted away.


	28. Deal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aftercare of a sort, but never too kind.

Antonin was elated. He wore pastel pale shirts and laid gentle kisses on her whenever he could, constantly showering her with his affection. The morning after he carved her up like a holiday ham he’d taken inventory of her wounds and set about healing them. The angry lines, some of which had opened in the night from the friction of two bodies and the fabric of the bed, disappeared under complex wand motions that she observed with a deep hunger. Magic. How she missed it. 

Once her flesh was healed he laid her again on his bed and soothed her aching muscles. It was so contrary to the night before, the kneading pressure of sending relief and easing the tension that lived deep within. 

“I told you I would take care of you, kitten,” he murmured as he massaged the hard knots of her shoulders. “You submit to me and I am responsible for your well-being.” He kissed her throat and continued kneading down her body.

Antonin paid the same tenderness to every part of her, rolling the muscles of her thighs that had strained so hard the night before, thumb pressing the arched of her foot. From time to time he would kiss her body-- the top of her foot, the meat of her thigh, the curve of her hip. 

When he skipped over her glutes, she was glad, thinking he would follow protocol she knew most massage therapists did. Instead he circled back once he had paid homage to the rest of her. His hands massaging the globes of her arse should not have sent her mind to Heavenly floatation, but there she was as Dolohov worked his fingers into the deep muscles.

It was when he parted her cheeks that her brain hummed in mild alarm. She tensed out of reflex.

“You know I will fuck you here eventually.” It was so casual, an offhand comment as his fingers continued their circular motions. “Not today. You really shouldn't tense, kitten. It will only make it worse.” The pad of one lotioned finger rubbed gently at the clenching muscle. “ _ Relax. _ ” 

Her face reddened, but she took a breath and reminded herself that the others were playing the game, it would pay off in the end. 

“There we are.” The finger prodded, the tip slipping in before she could tense again, and then the intrusion had already occurred and her muscles only made it more uncomfortable. “This will help, make it less painful for you. I’ll enjoy your pain in that case, but I would rather build to such. You are still such a breakable little thing.” The finger pumped as she forced her body to relax. “There’s a good girl, just let me help you.” As her body adjusted, he slipped in another finger and she protested.

“It’s too much.”

“Shush, kitten. You were ready for it. Just take deep breaths and focus on relaxing these muscles for me.”

Hermione’s eyes burned with tears of loathing, but she lowered her head on her arms and drew deep breaths, counting her inhales and exhales, releasing the tension intentionally. And it  _ was _ easier, though still foreign.

He only continued a few moments more before withdrawing and spelling his hand clean. “See, love? I will prepare you properly and take care of you after. All you need to do is continue being good for me.” His smile was brimming with fondness. 

Hermione imagined he would pounce on her more often after that, his eyes the silver of a hungry leopard. It seemed he’d taken Snape’s advice to heart, and he gave her days between his feral attentions. 

“Severus will be coming for tea,” Antonin informed her one morning. “He wants to look you over again, and he would like to speak with me about business apparently.” His smile was boyish despite the ever-present scruff that graced his cheeks. “I imagine he’ll be dragging one of his little proteges with him. You may speak with them, of course, but you will not allow any touch and you will not be alone with them. You have been so accommodating these last few days, but I do not trust men to ignore your charms.”

Her face was an amiable mask. “Of course, Antonin. You must know I never really had an interest in boys at Hogwarts. I’m not much romantically inclined.”

“Except the Krum boy, the Quidditch player,” he countered.

“Viktor was… different. He was kind, attentive.” She glanced at Dolohov, wondering at how absolutely adoring the Death Eater could be while wanting her to writhe in agony while he was inside of her. The contrast was dizzying. “But we decided friends were better for us, pen pals. So that was not really a romance.”

He hummed, drumming long fingers on the table. “You value those things? Kindness, attentiveness?”

“Yes,” she said with whispered hesitation.

A grin unfurled across his lips. “How convenient for me. You are an only child, yes?” She nodded. “And had trouble finding friends most of your childhood.” Her jaw stiffened, but she nodded again. “You must have been such a lonely girl, all brilliant mind and long silences as others formed groups around you.” 

It chipped at the ice she’d tried to form around her heart, that pick of truth. “I found friends.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “And then I found you.”

Hermione set down her teacup and looked up at him with mild plaintiveness. “Could I go to my room?”

“Of course, kitten.”

“Thank you, Antonin.” She leaned toward him to receive his lips and left him at the table.

_ I’m playing the game, that’s all. Already he is easing his behavior with me. Eventually he’ll loosen the reins and I will be able to help the resistance. Wait for me, Neville. I’m coming. _

She worked on her equations for a bit, the information too sparse to get a true conclusion. 

“This is useless. I’ll need to completely redo it the moment someone gives me information about our side. There are not enough known factors.” She tossed the lengths of parchment to her side table and flopped on her bed to stare at the canopy above. 

Hermione was restless. She needed something to occupy her, make her feel productive. The equations had served their purpose and run their course; she couldn’t  _ do  _ anything with them other than guess. Her brain itched to do more; her current task of ingratiating herself to Dolohov was… well, she could use a distraction from it.

Hermione glanced at the clock and decided it was close enough to tea time to get ready; brush her hair, braiding it tightly so the curls were tidied away. She scrubbed her face and stared at her reflection.

_ I don’t look like a corpse waiting to realize I’m dead anymore.  _ A corner of her mouth twitched at the thought. Antonin, obsessive Death Eater sadist as he was, was ardent about her care. She ate at every meal regardless of her appetite, so her cheeks were no longer shadowed hollows. She slept at night in a comfortable enough bed, though she always worried about what would happen _.  _ Would Antonin crawl into bed with her? Would he wake her by stealing her breath? He’d done those things before, though he rarely interrupted her sleep.

Other than Dolohov’s delusional demands, life was fairly comfortable for her. 

Her reflection’s visage twisted in disgust, lips curls in a sneer, nose wrinkled. Horrified, really. Then her brows dropped in consideration.

_ This is a natural response to your situation,  _ she asserted.  _ You see the lack-- well, near-lack-- of abuse as kindness rather than normal human dignity. He is an obsessive freak and his affection is born of a desperate need to fill a gap in his life left when his mother died. That’s all. He doesn’t truly care for you, or he wouldn’t be doing these horrid things to you. _

Hermione straightened and nodded to herself. This was what she needed to remind herself of. This was her truth. She was Hermione Granger, Gryffindor, best friend of Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley, the smartest witch Hogwarts had seen in generations. 

With that she glided out of her room with her head held high.

Antonin was amused to see her arriving early to tea; she didn’t always join him, sometimes being too wrapped up in a book to remember, or just not wanting to endure the cruel kindness of her host.

“Love, good to see you so soon.” He stroked her cheek with his forefinger. “What blend of tea would you like this afternoon?”

She tipped her head and studied the easy satisfaction on his countenance. “Black, I think. Something bold, strong.”

Dolohov nodded. “As you wish, my love.” _ When Tippy came, he gave her order and thoughtfully asked whether there was anything else she would like. _

“The usual fare is more than enough,” she replied. “Thank you, Tippy.”

The elf bowed low before disapparating. 

“Black was a good choice, It will match Severus’ mood, I imagine.” He’d laid his hand near hers and stroked his pinky along the line of her curled hand. 

When the bell tolled the arrival of visitors, Tippy had everything arranged neatly on the table. 

“Please show them in, Tippy,” the Death Eater commanded.

“You don’t wish to greet them yourself?” Hermione asked with a quirked brow. He’d always done so in the past; perhaps he still held a grudge over Snape’s assessment at the first monthly health check. 

“Severus has been here often enough; I did not greet Rodolphus, if you remember”

She swallowed the thumping of her heart at the reminder. “Right.”

“How quaint.”

Hermione’s head jerked up to meet the cold, black eyes of her former professor.

“I admit, I did not realize you were such a  _ domestic  _ man, Antonin. Content to play house with Muss Granger, having guests for tea. What else can we expect in the future?” His deep voice slithered over the floor to play at the mind. 

If Antonin thought the words were offensive he did not show it. “I find I am happy to spend my days with a pretty woman. I have the money, I serve the Dark Lord as needed. Is there any reason I should not spend my days this way?”

Snape shrugged and flopped into the seat across from Hermione. “I had thought such a cruel man would find more satisfaction in rounding up undesirables and perhaps tormenting them for information.”

Michael trailed in with Tippy, smiling apologetically as the two Death Eaters continued their conversation.

“There are hardly any undesirables at this point, just muggleborns who happen to exist and are hiding, and the half-bloods and blood traitors who gave them sanctuary.” Antonin trailed his fingertips over the back of her hand, lining the delicate bones. “Besides, I have my satisfaction right here should I need release.”

Snape’s upper lip curled just enough that she knew he disapproved. “I am not so sure of that. These enemies of ours proved themselves clever time and again. It is part of why we keep such a close eye on those like Miss Granger.”

“The clever ones are all dead or captured. My sweet girl here is learning to accept her place beside me.” He flashed her a smile of adoration. 

“Your  _ feelings  _ for Miss Granger are sickening, Dolohov. You’re like a puppy.”

In the time of a coin flip, Antonin’s face had turned to ice, and he turned sharp grey eyes on Snape. “She is an obedient creature for me, accepts my attention, and is learning to enjoy the less delicate parts of being my companion.”

“Obedient? That is out of character for the  _ Golden Girl. _ ” Her professor eyed her skeptically. “I should very much like to see that. How absolutely obedient she is.”

_ How  _ the man was able to say such things and not have them suggestive was beyond Hermione’s own abilities. She’d have sounded ridiculous.

“I’m sure when you are gone to meetings or on missions, she reverts back to her normal rebellious nature.” Snape’s eyes glinted as he said the words, a sly tick hitching the corner of his mouth. 

Antonin rested his chin on one fist, gaze flicking consideringly between her and Snape. “The Malfoys were unable to take proper care of her when I last left. Do you think you could do better?”

“You want me to babysit you dunderheaded Gryffindor?”

_ “ _ It would show you just how much she has changed under my care.” He thumbed her delicate skin thoughtfully. “I am certain you have no lecherous designs on her.”

Snape snorted at that. “Certainly not.”

“We can make a bet of it. Depending on her behavior. What do you think?” He was playful, nonchalant, and not jealous. And Hermione felt as though she’d been tipped into a hole to find herself walking on the ceiling. How strange.

“I… suppose. Depending on the terms,” the professor responded evenly. “If she requires true correction outside of words, I win. If she does not, you win?”

“I’ll want to know the reasoning behind any correction, and hear it from her as well.” Dolohov tapped his fingers against his delicate teacup. “If I win, I will expect you to defer to my judgement on my pet from now on. And If you win… hm. Perhaps you could give me some direction on how you would handle her?” He seemed amused at the idea.

The other Death Eater lifted a thick brow. “And you would listen? Now that is a change for you. Agreed.” Snape’s longer hand locked with Antonin’s much wider, though equally deft-fingered one as they shook to seal their deal. Why Snape cared enough about her to make such a deal was beyond her, unless he really was still working against Voldemort (and she cautioned herself there not to read too deeply into all the events she’d witnessed). Perhaps he enjoyed being right enough to make it worth the trouble.

“Are you well, Michael?” she asked of the boy. He seemed younger to her, despite being in her own year while at Hogwarts. 

But then, her only regular companion was Antonin Dolohov, who was old enough that he’d served as a Knight of Walpurgis. She studied the shimmering grey that laced his dark curls, the lines at the corners of his eyes, the leathery skin of his knuckles. It never failed to amaze her how some wizards could age.  _ And Dark magic has great rewards if one is willing to pay the price. _

Bright blue eyes met her own umber when she turned back to Michael. They were wide and watchful, and her cheeks brightened as she realized he’d seen her introspection of Dolohov. 

“I’m fine.” He shrugged, shoulders pushing at his straight black hair. “Headmaster Snape keeps me well-informed, and I travel with him to see other Death Eaters quite often, so I’ve gotten to see some of the other, er, wards. Neville, and Ginny too! And Blaise is becoming somewhat of a friend. He isn’t so bad, as I’m sure you’ve started to realize.”

His eyes widened and she nodded slowly. “That’s good. You can’t have too many friends in this world.”

“Yeah. Who knows, maybe Mister Dolohov will let you start having friends too.”

Hermione’s lips twisted in a sour smile. “He’s rather unwilling to share me, so it isn’t likely.”

“Oh.” His brightened with sorrow at her plight. “At least there’s this.”

Yes, this. A few Death Eaters and whomever they may drag along to see her in her gilded cage, or at events where she was paraded like a wild creature on a leash for Antonin’s delight. Her eyes danced down to the heavy weight on her left hand, the blasted ring he had insisted she keep wearing. It was a tether on her soul. “Yes,” she murmured at last.


	29. Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snape isn't all bad.

“Are you planning on leaving me soon?” she queried lightly at dinner that evening.

“What’s that?” Concern shadowed his expression until she laid a hand over his in placation.

“What you told Professor Snape,” Hermione prompted. “About leaving me with him for your next mission.”

The silver of his eyes shone as he watched her face for any hint of something that would displease him. “Are upset about that?”

She laughed and shook her head, trying to pack away the thumping nerves and sparks of hope dancing through her. “Professor Snape and I aren’t precisely friendly, and he’s always delighted in putting me in my place, but he’s certainly not the absolute sadist Lucius Malfoy is. So I appreciate you seeking out an alternative for my care.” Hermione brushed away the cobwebs of disgust that lingered at memory of her time in the dungeons.

Dolohov rolled her palm to weave his fingers with her own. “I was going to tell you tomorrow morning, but yes. When you wake the morning after tomorrow I will not be here. I will ask Severus to stop by that evening; he has permission to stay, even bring along his little protege along since the boy seems harmless enough.”

“Thank you. It would be rather lonely here with only Tippy for company.” His hand squeezed gently. 

“You will not be able to leave the manor without me though, love.” He was boring into her with steely eyes and steely grip. “I have ensured it.” At the denial flying to her lips he smirked. “I am no idiot, Hermione. For all your sweet submission, I know the fire still burns inside you. I know you long for your freedom.” He stood over her, trailing his wand hand over her cheek. “Are finished? Good.” He tugged her to her feet and led her to her bed to devour her again.

  
  


It was the date on her coin, the first change since the awful party at Hogwarts, and she wondered if the time was when Snape would arrive. Dolohov had taken her to bed another night, leaving a healing potion on her nightstand before he left. It didn’t remove everything, but it eased the deep aches, smoothed over the bruises, and the places where her flesh broke became shiny pink skin. Deeper bite wounds were the pale yellow of aged bruises. She looked less like she’d been mauled by a rabid dog.

Hermione flipped the coin, glancing to check the slavishly ticking clock on the mantle. It was nearly time. She tucked the Galleon in its cool hidey hole and dusted her hands as she stood. 

The whoosh of the fire was as telling as the momentary sickly green light thrown through the doorway. Footsteps echoed and shadow passed, then the sound repeated. 

“Do you think she checked the coin?” It was a small voice, youthful and uncertain. 

“Do not speak of it, you dunderhead.” Heavy boots sauntered across the room with an authoritative slap. If he hadn’t given himself away with the statement, Hermione had heard his tread often enough to recognize it.

She slipped into the doorframe and nearly bowled into the man’s black-clad chest. “Oh! Hello, professor.”

Hermione was transported for a moment as the looming man favored her with a sneer straight out of her school days. “Miss Granger.” 

Michael peeked at her from behind the stolid man, his eyes a spot of light in the shadows. “Hello, Hermione.”

Yes, they had fought together and been in the DA together, but it was interesting the familiarity with which Michael now treated her. Perhaps it was a way to comfort himself that he was not alone in this brave new world. 

“Michael,” she nodded. “It’s good to see you both. Welcome.” She wrung her hands, uneasiness swimming in her stomach. She’d lived here some few months now, but it was not her home. Yet she was playing hostess in a way. “Er. Is there-- is there anything you’d like? Tea or…?”

“It would be good to know where we will be sleeping,” Snape droned down to her. She had forgotten what it was like to have his falcon-sharp focus on her; the terror of the Dungeons was not a short man, though he was rail-thin. He had a way of looming over even the largest students, his shadow billowing around him as much as his robes.

“Right,” she murmured. “Er, Tippy!” 

The elf popped into existence and bowed deeply. “How may I help Miss?”

“Professor Snape and Mister Corner a few days. Did Dolohov set aside rooms for them”Perhaps she should have asked more questions before he left, but Antonin had been so very  _ touchy _ with her then that she’d tried to limit interaction. 

The elf’s saucer-eyes further widened. “Oh, yes, Master is having Tippy prepare guest rooms. Tippy will show the Masters, right this way.” She led them out and Hermione trailed behind as they were shown rooms down the opposite way of Hermione’s, doors side-by-side. Once assured the men were properly escorted she reminded them to call of her should they need anything and disapparated with another bow that trailed her ears on the floor.

“Well,” Hermione hazarded, her breath ballooning in her chest as she became aware that she was alone with them. Alone with people other than Antonin for the first time since Malfoy Manor, since she’d been baited, tortured, locked in a dungeon and…

“You mentioned tea earlier, Granger?” Snape queried, her eyes lifting to see the tilt of a brow. 

She nodded. “We usually have tea at three. In the dining room, though sometimes we’ve had it in the--”

“We will see you then,” he interrupted smoothly, turning on his heel and shutting himself in his room. 

Michael smiled wryly. “Sorry. He can be… short.”

“I’ve noticed.” They exchanged low laughs. “How long are you here for?”

“Two nights, I think? Your-- Dolohov apparently prefers short missions.”

“Yes, I’m sure he does.” She released the extra air she’d held in her chest, “Would you like to see the library? It’s a decent size, though I suspect he’s removed any books that may be a direct help to me.”

“Oh?”

“Well, I didn’t get to stay here the last time he left for more than a day. And I wasn’t always allowed to roam as I am now. He believes in going slowly supposedly.” Her eyes rolled back and Michael chuckled; it felt good, like she could be back at Hogwarts and talking about a professor or (more likely) a rude fellow student who had interfered in some way. She and Michael hadn’t exactly been friends, but the Ravenclaw had shared many classes with her over the years even before the DA. 

The mirth soon drained from his eyes and they were left watery with worry as his brows pinched together. “Are you… all right, Hermione?”

That was the thousand Galleon question. The truth was a needle through her heart, perhaps a whole skewer, but could she tell him that? Michael, whose face still shone with innocence, whose mask was an imperfect expression of his empathy? “Are you?”

“Oh, yeah. Professor Snape, well, he’s not exactly friendly. But he’s not all bad. When I’m not making the rounds with him, I’m typically managing something or another at Hogwarts.” There came another twinge behind his eyes. “There’s still a lot to do, but it’s returning to normal. As normal as it can be.” He swep a hand through his dark brown hair and shrugged. “Everything’s gone to Hell, hasn’t it?”

“Yes,” she agreed, staring at a fleck of light reflected onto the wall. It was red as blood and shifted when her hand did. “Well, you probably want to, er, unpack.”

“Right.” When Hermione was a few steps away, Michael called, “I’m sorry, Hermione. For all of this.” Then disappeared inside his room.

Tea and dinner were both oddly tense affairs, Snape silencing any attempts to tread near the subject of rebellion. It wasn’t until he invited the two former students to join him for brandy that she felt the niggling grain of hope stir behind her breastbone.

“Thank you, Tippy, that will be all for the evening.” The little elf peered around the room and then bowed to the foreboding man in response before apparating away. His tapered wand arced and flicked and quite the show of “wand-waving” that bubbled up a giggle as Hermione recalled his words on her very first day in his class. The severity in his black eyes cut it short as he rounded on her.

“I will make this short, Miss Granger.” He paced before the fire, tasting the words considerately before deciding on them. “You have no doubt discerned that there are still certain factions against the Dark Lord, and have devised a way to make contact, foolish though it may have been. There is, unfortunately for you, little you can do to further that cause.” His glared seared into her. “You will not act unless given leave. No Gryffindor foolishness. I expect you to behave with all the logic and intelligence everyone bragged about you possessing. Is that understood?”

“But--”

Snape snapped to her, bending to cage her in long arms where she sat. “ _ Do you understand?” _ It was a venom she’d only ever heard spoken at Harry or Remus or Sirius and it severed her curiosity.

“Yes, sir.”

Slivers of obsidian flicked between her eyes and he pulled away. “Dolohov is one of the Dark Lord’s most trusted Death Eaters. He relies on him to speak truth where others might not, and I am perhaps the only one with whom the Dark Lord has more patience. He has no real power outside of that; his wealth is fairly modest compared to others and his family has more political clout in Russia than here. However, his favor with the Dark Lord is a great advantage for him. Dolohov is almost a friend to him. And  _ that _ , Miss Granger, is where you come in. It may prove advantageous. In the time being, keep with what you are doing.”

Cold spread from her heart as hope dropped into the acid of her stomach. “What I’m doing?” Her throat shook with the quiet statement.  _ “What I’m doing?”  _ A fury that had been building behind the concrete of her will cascaded over her chill in a rush of molten lava. “What I’m doing, professor, is being raped nearly daily by now. Being cut and whipped and degraded. Manipulated and beaten down until it is easier to be complicit in my own destruction rather than bear the brunt of this sadist’s displeasure. All the while the threat of more and worse hangs over my throat like a sword ready to behead me should I step out of place. He is sick, a madman! He thinks he is romancing me, convincing me to become what he wants and I’m terrified he might one day succeed. He-- he-- he wants to have  _ children _ with me, for Merlin’s sake! I’m a mudblood, and not even that will keep me safe. I’m supposed to be undesirable, I’m supposed to be-- I’m supposed to be dead.”

Hermione folded in on herself, horrified as the words frothed from her, hands slapping over her mouth as the last bowled into her with all the force of a wrecking ball. She stared down at her lap, cold drops gathering at the ridge of her lower lid. 

“Nevertheless, you live.” It was said with all the gentleness she imagined the man might contain. “We all are living in Hell now, Miss Granger, and some of us pay more dearly than others.” She looked up at him, tears spilling to cool her cheeks. He was less looming now and there was a glint of something human in the dark pools of his eyes. “What I ask of you is not easy, but it is necessary. I know what it is to sell your soul for this cause and…” Pain laced with sympathy flashed across his face. “For what it’s worth, I am sorry.”

_ Severus Snape just apologized to me. _ She stared up at him with her incredulity written clearly for him to read. 

“Yes, well. Don’t get used to it.” A wry smile spanned his lips. “On another note, your basic Occlumency seems well enough for the brief, uninterested forays the Dark Lord has made. Keep practicing.”

“Occlumency?”

“Yes,” he reiterated. “Occlumency. You compartmentalise away what you don’t want even yourself to act upon. It wouldn’t last against an in-depth perusal, but it should suit our purpose. Should he ever delve deeper, focus on the pain first and perhaps he will think that is all you hide.”

She frowned and dwelled upon his words, gaze flicking to the fire, orange reflected in amber. 

"Now, shall we toast to our cause?" He levitated a tumbler to each of his companions. "And to a night of safety for us all."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I have about three or four ways I've mapped out for this story to end. I'm torn, but leaning a direction that is dark, but may piss people off...


	30. Mercurial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Antonin returns home, then is summoned to celebrate success.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't speak Russian, so other than a few words here and there, I don't try writing it lest I butcher it. However, I imagine Antonin uses it in pillow-talk, comfort, sex, generally vulnerable moments. And I imagine him as quite the dirty talker, obviously.

The older man was contemplative, quiet, stern during their morning meal. His eyes became black ice at any mention skirting too closely to their true goals. While it galled her, she knew it was for the best; he had lived decades in this world of subterfuge, while she was a child in the arts. 

She escorted Michael to the library then and they spent their afternoon amid the comforting scent of knowledge and hands that paged that tomes. Time melted away until it was measured only in the flip of thick vellum pages and murmured joy as they shared new knowledge. They declined tea in favor of keeping their noses buried, and they hurried dinner to return to their books.

Hermione had forgotten what it was like to live in study. Dolohov never ceased to hover on the periphery, too often interrupting her reading with his wicked hands and greedy mouth. He thrived on her attention even-- or especially-- when it was unwilling, disgruntled. But Michael was a companionable study partner. He was genuinely interested whenever she found something worth sharing, and would participate in the hushed conversations purely academically. He did not require her touch, did not manipulate her, did not desire anything but her friendship and knowledge. She was practically transported to Hogwarts in her mind. 

“Ah, Hermione, look at this.” The young man held aloft a thick leather volume. ”It’s a diagram of Azemoth’s theorem.”

She scurried toward the couch, laying her chin upon his shoulder to read the text as scholarly excitement trekked down her spine. “Do you think that would work? It seems one of those things sound enough in theory, but highly impractical.” Her fingers traced the lines of the illustration.

“Well, isn’t this cozy.”

Her head snapped painfully quick to the door where icy fury emanated from her shadowy jailor. 

Hermione jolted back from her friend, hands curling into tight balls. “Antonin. It wasn’t-- I was only looking over his shoulder, I swear.” 

The fury of his ice-storm eyes shot daggers at the boy. “Out.” Michael scurried away, spilling the book on the cushions in a tumble of bent pages which she hurried to soothe. 

“He’s only a friend,” she reiterated as her fingers smoothed the thick pages. “And I was only trying to get a good look at the book.”

The heavy beating of his boots against the floor mirrored her thumping heart. The iron shackle of his hand gripped her wrist, jerking her attention to him. She’d been leaning over the settee and was now halfway on top of it, her eyes widening to Galleons. “I do not like you touching other men, much less in such a familiar way.”

Hermione’s frown nearly overwhelmed the fear scrawled across her face. “Would I not be allowed to hug my friends then?”

“The girls, yes. But are you so eager for physical intimacy with other men? Have I mistaken you for a more virtuous woman than you truly are?”

“Please.” She tugged away on instinct and his grip tightened to chafe at her soft skin. “You know I’ve never-- I don’t  _ want _ that with anyone. Michael has never crossed my mind in such a way.”

Cruel fingers barreled her over the couch back and she tumbled onto the cushions in a heap of ruffled skirt and flying curls. His red face thrust into her vision as he held her delicate jaw. “You will not touch other men in so familiar a way regardless. I will not have it.”

Boldness from the last two days flared hot. “I kissed a girl once. Perhaps I prefer the fairer sex.”

Dolohov forced her to her back and mounted her hips. “Shall I tell that to Bellatrix? Have her fill that craving for you, love?” His voice was insidiously soft, at odds with the ferocity of his hands and the burning cold of his eyes. “Do not test me. If I thought for a moment you desired another I would not hesitate to lock you in my bedroom so only I may touch you. Would you like that, pet? Being my captive mudblood princess hidden away from the world?” He ground against her so she could feel the weight of his opinion on the thought. 

“No,” she whispered, shoving a fluttering palm against his chest. “Please, Antonin, we have guests.”

The wet tear of her dress groaned over her pleas. “And I have been away from you too long to forego this reunion. They can wait.” The velvet of his lips contrasted the sharp cruelty of his teeth as he fell upon on her throat. “You taste so good, kitten, so sweet.” Dolohov slid to her breasts and lavished them with the same ministrations. He sucked one nipple until it became painful and she smothered a cry against the cushions. “No,” he ordered, turning her face back to the room. “I want to hear you. I want  _ them _ to hear you.”

Mortification swam over her, mingling with the feelings he pulled from her unwilling body. He was pushing up her skirt to tease at her covered slit with clever fingers. “Please…”

His groan thrummed against her flesh. “You know what your begging does to me. Have you missed my cock so much,  _ katyonok _ ?”

“No.” Her slim fingers tangled in his dark, silken curls in an attempt at dislodging him, but it only set his teeth in deeper as he chuckled. 

His mouth pulled off her tit with an obscene pop and a rope of thick saliva breaking belatedly. “You want to play rough, kitten?” The hand between her legs disappeared and her own flew to the arm of the couch and stuck there. “Far be it from me to deny you.” Her knickers disappeared next and her eyes shot down to see him tugging open his belt and trousers, freeing his length. 

“Please, Antonin.” Terror thudded through her ears. “Please no, let’s wait until later tonight.”

He gazed at her thoughtfully and the flower of her hope turned toward him like the sun. One large hand was stroking himself slowly as he considered, then a boyish grin unfurled over his lips and she knew she was damned. “No.” His head played against the minute slick gathered just at her entrance. “Poor kitten. Not ready yet, are you?” The offense wetness cut through the drum of her heartbeats as he spat on her core and used that to slide in.

It burned, the width stretching her tight passage and catching him before he could seat completely inside her. “It hurts. Please, Antonin, this isn’t-- I can’t--”

He edged out before diving back into her with violence enough she knew she was tearing. “Then perhaps you will learn not to touch other men.” Sweet fingers stroked back the curls on her forehead. “Who do you belong to, kitten?”

She squeezed shut her eyes, the sight of his lust-ridden eyes too much to bear. 

“Come, sweet girl, tell me.” He was opening her to him, carving out space with each painful thrust.

And she knew he’d make it worse if she did not obey. “You.”

“Say my name, kitten. Who owns you?”

_ I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.  _ “Antonin.”

He groaned hotly in her ear and picked up his brutal pace, fingers snaking down to give her the unwanted reward of stroking her clit. “Yes,” he hissed as her core responded to the selfish act. “My good girl, again. Say it again.”

“Antonin.” The pain morphing into something less sharp, more acute, and dread built behind the swirling pleasure. 

“Again,  _ katyonok.” _

_ “Antonin.” _

A stream of Russian spilled into her hair and she tightened around him. “That’s it. Just like that.” His lips travelled over her arching throat, sucking and biting alternately, drawing confusing sensations from her nerves. 

Brisk knocks echoed through the door. 

“Fuck!” He knelt up on her and turned a snarl toward the door. "What?" 

Deep sardonicism resonated through the door. "The Dark Lord has invited us to celebrate the success of your mission with him."

Despite the interruption the dark man had not stopped his movement, instead slowing to allow for divided attention. "I am currently celebrating with my pet." 

"How fortuitous that her presence is also requested." A tense beat passed. "Immediately."

Coarse Russian cursing met her ears. He pulled out of her with squelching wet noises, swishing his wand so her gown reknit before tucking himself away. "Come, pet. We will finish this later.” He tucked her against him as he led to the fireplace and tossed in a handful of Floo powder. ”Malfoy Manor.”

Voices greeted them as they neared the drawing room, masculine laughter overtop crackling fire. “Ah, Antonin!” The Dark Lord gestured him forward, indicating a chair just to his right, a place of honor for the man who had led a successful mission. 

“My Lord.” He inclined his head in respect and guided Hermione into the room.

It was brimming with the cutting gazes of people who loathed her; Bellatrix Lestrange was on the Dark Lord’s other side, her husband and his brother to her own left. Blaise Zabini was between Malfoy and Michael, who was also flanking Professor Snape. Lucius Malfoy stood with a forearm against the burning hearth and Thorfinn Rowle was in the seat nearest him.

Dolohov’s fingers tangled in her hair, forcing her to the floor between his legs and she folded, wondering whether this was an improvement from sitting on his lap. The floor was hard, but she had warmth enough from the burning fire and the cage of his long legs. He stroked her scalp soothingly as she settled.

“I am quite pleased with the work you and young Draco accomplished, Antonin. And in half the time I allotted.” He poured a glass with careless flicks of his fingers and levitated it over to the Death Eater. “You may be a better mentor for the boy than his father.”

“The boy seems to respond well to a more hands-on approach is all, my Lord.” It was nearly a grumble despite the words of praise, and she imagined she could feel it rumbling over her. 

The sharp burn of brandy whiffed around her and then the bottle was floating into a hand overhead.

“More already? My, aren’t you feeling celebratory? Pace yourself; I would hate to have to scrape you off my floor.” The Malfoy patriarch watched with a raised brow, voice laden with disdain.

“Do not test me right now, Malfoy.” He sounded as though he were gritting his jaw and she could picture the narrowed slits of his eyes. "You will not enjoy the result."

Wry amusement played across the pale man’s face. "Quite violent tonight. I thought your little mudblood helped curb those urges."

Cloth shifted behind her and Dolohov eased her head against him, tugging her to her knees. Fingertips stroked against raw marks on her throat. "I was attempting just that before our Lord summoned me."

Dangerously low words slithered through the room. "Did I interrupt something , Antonin?"

His touch hesitated on her skin. "I-- unfortunate timing, my lord."

Ruby eyes glinted in the dim light, sending shivers of terror along her nerves. "Well, I would hate to delay your pleasure. But all means." His teeth bared in a predatory grin. 

"I am happy to continue with my pet later, my Lord." 

At the stiffness in Dolohov’s voice, the smile widened. "No. Now.”

The room became deadly quiet as the focus of the group honed in on the man beside the Dark Lord and the girl at his feet. “As you wish.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to work a bit faster, but I have only two chapters written after this one. Also, yeah, I know. I'm terrible. This is just evil. But Voldemort enjoys displays of power, even if it sometimes makes his followers uncomfortable. And he delights in seeing cruelty, as well as being cruel.
> 
> Thank you for all the encouragement about the end! I appreciate it greatly.
> 
> I have a poll concerning the non-Dolly Death Eaters up on Twitter (@freyafallen) right now. Who is your favorite?


	31. Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This contains public sex/rape, and the moments after.

A fine tremble began at her bottom lip and mapped its way across her as she was pulled to standing, her feet stuttering on the floor in an attempt to gain a foundation. Her arms wove before her chest and the recently torn fabric there, but vices of hands spread them back to her sides. It did not ease the roiling of her body that he did not want to do this either.

His fingers drifted gently up her arms to cup her cheeks, tender anger flashing in his grey eyes. “Strip, kitten.” Her head wanted to jolt to the sides in denial, but he held her firm. “If the Dark Lord desires a show, then we will give him one.”

When she did not move to obey he sighed and cut the dress open with a line of his wand. It fluttered around her bare body, shaking with her fear, and his eyes drifted over her heatedly. With her back to the room only he and the Dark Lord could see her body clearly, but it was enough that she was under their eyes, shame rushing to her cheeks. 

Deft fingers twisted at her nipples until they were tight peaks. “Beautiful,” he murmured, trailing down her belly to dart between her legs. “Still wet enough, I think.” Two fingers screwed into and she whimpered, turning her face toward the fire. The fingers pumped wetly inside her, leather boots sliding between her slippered feet when she tried to close her legs. “None of that, kitten, be a good girl.”

“I never imagined you could be so gentle, Dolohov.” Laughter followed on the heels of the elder Lestrange’s mockery. “Were you similarly soft when you punished her?”

Antonin growled and snatched her hair in a twisting grip. He stood, fingers leaving her core to tear the remainder of her clothing from her shoulders, then pushed her cheek into the seat cushion. A sob choked her as she realized her bare backside was now on display and she tried to shrink in on herself, thighs cinching together uselessly. 

There was no warning to the wicked  _ thwap! _ that was his belt against her skin. She shrieked, hands darting back only to be smacked away. 

“Hands over your head unless you’d like them split open.” His voice was cold, ruthless, and plunged her into despair. She swept her arms beneath her head, burying tears against herself. Each successive lash of his belt she cried out in horrified shame, feet dancing over the floor as though she could escape, nails gorging into herself. When it ended, she flinched away from his hand smoothing over her welts to the great amusement of their onlookers.

“Does it hurt, kitten?” He lingered on the raised skin, voice dripping with cruelty. “I know, sweet girl.” The belt slapped onto the floor as he dropped it in favor of pulling her knees to the seat of the chair. He laid one broad hand across the top of her arse and bent to murmur in her ear. “As much as I hate sharing even the sight of you in such a state with others, I cannot deny the pride that comes with owning this sweet little body as they look in lustful envy.” His thumb circled around the tight ring of muscle and she jumped. “And they  _ are _ envious, kitten.” He kissed her throat before standing once more and soon the bulbous head of him was at her apex, pushing into her once more.

Hermione bit into her forearm to keep the pain of his intrusion silent. Her raw skin dragged at his length, already stinging from his previous entrance. Dolohov groaned, easing out to pump in and create space in her. “So tight again already, pet. So hot. Does that hurt,  _ katyonok? _ ” When she did not answer, he wrapped her hair around his fist and arched her body off the cushion. “I said,  _ does it hurt _ .”

“Yes.” The word creaked out of her throat, wobbling with the threat of tears.

“Were you biting yourself?” He chuckled, the thumb at her back sliding inside as she beat against the chair in futility. “I am happy to provide you with more pain, my sweet little whore. You only need to ask.”

Fingers dipped to the slick between her legs, bare protection from her body, and brought it to the other hole to work more deeply inside her. “Please stop,” she whined. 

Masculine amusement trickled over her skin. “I’m going to fuck you here one day,” he groaned, thrusting his thumb in time with his hips. “But not tonight. It will be when we are alone some time, an intimate pain only for us.” At her whimper he slipped his arm around her throat, forearm and bicep crushing her delicate throat between them as her scalp ached even at the loss of his grip. 

“How she pulses around my cock when I choke her.” Her toes struggled against the floor as he pulled back, stars danced into life behind her eyelids. “She tries so hard to hate it, but her cunt betrays her. Yes,  _ katyonok _ , it does, he insisted as she tried to deny it. “Do you want to see your admirers, love?”

“No.”

“Hm. Too bad.” He swung around with a hand encircling her hips and one still over her throat. The efforts of his choking were ballooning the blood in her face, her mouth agape and her eyes too wide. She searched desperately for hel[p, but met dark lust and fury in nearly every gaze, even that of the cold Lucius Malfoy. And then her eyes fell on his son.

He mirrored her own desperation in eyes black with something she did not want to see, and his gaze flicked down over her body to send hot shame and echoes of his lechery through her. When Dolohov lapped and bit at her throat, she tumbled into oblivion, choked cries struggling against his arm. 

“Yes, love, that’s it.” He milked her orgasm in long strokes, then hissed through his teeth as he found his own completion. “My perfect girl, yes, so good.” He spilled into her and fell back into the chair to tug her onto his lap. Hermione collapsed against his chest, sobbing miserably and hiding her face from the eyes that seemed to burn beneath her skin. “I know,” he murmured in her hair, wrapping strong arms around her shaking form. 

Dolohov rocked her and cooed softly into her hair until she was adrift from the panic that had consumed her, replacing it with a blanket of snowy numbness. When she finally came back to her skin, she was curled up on him still, his robe draped across their laps and his hands stroking her absently. 

Hermione frowned and prodded at the sheen of nothing over her mind. It bounced back firmly against her attempt and she settled into it and against Antonin, who placed an absent kiss on her temple. And then she peered around them. 

The Dark Lord, Bellatrix, Snape, and Blaise were all engaged, Lucius Malfoy paying enough attention to toss in the occasional comment. But his eyes were drifting much as her own. They skimmed the circle of guests, paused briefly here and there, lingered over the fire, and then fell to her. 

Swathed in heated flame and velvet shadows that transformed his angelic appearance sinister. His eyes raged, pupils swallowing up the silver rim so they were dark as the bowels of Hell. They branded her own with the mark of his hatred before sweeping down to study where Dolohov’s hands stroked and plucked at her. They crawled over the curve of her throat, the sweep of her collarbones, before sauntering down to the softness of her breasts and the prurience of her nipples. 

Unbidden, his tongue darted across the line of his lips and then he caught himself, nose crinkling in disgust as he sneered at her blank eyes, then turned toward the hearth.

Cloaked in cooler orange light filtered through further distance and other shapes, the Malfoy son was fighting as though a magnetic pull was drawing his gaze to her. His study was furtive, concern battling alien emotions across his face. His lips parted, eyes widened in imitation of awe, then he’d grit his jaw, narrow his eyes, turn away. 

Michael steadily did not look at her and she was grateful. Snape seemed uninterested in anything, his eyes more clinical when he glanced at her, at the bruises purpling over her. It was far preferable to the amused blood red of the Dark Lord’s stare. How his eyes crawled across the length of one exposed thigh, how they trailed over the actions of Dolohov’s fingers.

Bellatrix had one supplicating hand on the snake-like man, first on his arm and then dropping to his black-clad thigh. Hermione turned her head away from the motion, unsettling nausea curling up from her belly despite the cotton shield she’d wrapped around her mind.

When the wild woman whispered into him, the Dark Lord grinned predatorily. “We will be retiring for the evening. Gentlemen,” he murmured as they all made their obeisance. Ruby eyes glittered over her and his smile deepened, but he did not address her before sweeping from the room.

“I think we will also go.” Dolohov’s chest vibrated warmly against her cheek. “We’ve had quite enough socialization for now.” He cradled her against him and she managed only a small wave before he stalked from the room. 

Green fire flurried around them and then they were back at his familiar manor.

“I am so sorry about that, my sweet girl. I would not have shared the sight of you had the Dark Lord not commanded it.” He laid her over his bed, fragrant sheets soft against her burning flesh. “Head up, love.” The coppery scent of healing potion filled her nose as he cradled her head, tipping the liquid down her throat. Cool relief soothed the welts on her backside and the stinging of her core, then hard arms wrapped around her. “Sleep now.” He stroked her hair until she caved to exhaustion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm steadily keeping about two chapters ahead! So yeah.


	32. Not Quite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione shows her devotion in a bid to get what she wants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was always gonna be a BJ scene somewhere. Here it is at last

“Antonin.” She settled her bone china teacup on its matching saucer with the gentlest of clatters, bright umber eyes glancing at him askew. 

“Yes, kitten?” He lowered _The_ _ Prophet _ to meet her gaze. 

She had to approach this delicately or it would be dangerous for her. “Professor Snape mentioned something a while back. He said they had a need for a new librarian at Hogwarts.”

Dark brows tugged down to shadow his eyes as he considered her. 

“I would not want to take the position full time if it bothered you,” she rushed placatingly. “I only wondered if I might be allowed to assist in the reorganization and recategorization of it, what since the new school year is approaching and all.”

“So you would be leaving me temporarily, and that is something you wish me to approve?” he scoffed. 

Hermione shook her head. “Not at all. You could be there with me if you liked, and I would still come here in the evenings.” She schooled her countenance to one properly scolded. “I would like to feel useful, and I have always loved the Hogwarts library. It would mean a great deal to me.”

She could feel his eyes and she stared at her lap, hands folded delicately against the pale pink of her skirt. 

“I will consider it.”

“Thank you.” Hermione smiled brightly, kissing his cheek before she disappeared into his own library.

She had thought it would require more persuasion before they reached that point and her heart fluttered lightly in her chest as she trailed the books with loving fingertips. It was a slow game she was playing, and too long she’d felt more pawn than rook. 

An absent, bittersweet smile unfurled at the memory of stepping onto the giant chess board. Ron had truly been at his best that day, directing her and Harry which pieces to replace, where to go next, how to play the game. Game strategy was where he shone brightest; he’d have made a formidable general.

Hermione settled into her preferred chair, paging through the title page, the table of contents, the single blank page, all the while she imagined Ron holding tight to a stone mount.

No, she would no longer play pawn for Severus Snape and the remnant of the Order. She was Hermione Granger; she may not know chess, but she knew the players of this game and she would position herself somewhere she could make moves and countermoves of her own. Antonin would eventually decide she could be trusted in the library and under the watchful eyes of all the Death Eaters there. Or so she hoped. 

Hogwarts was and had always been at the center of this war, thus it was where she needed to be. If she had to convince Dolohov of her devotion to him, she would. Harry sacrificed his life, as had Ron. Tonks, Lupin, Professor Dumbledore, Fred Weasley, Lavender Brown, Colin Creevy.

She pressed the heels of her palms to her eyes as faces of the dead flooded her mind, years of laughter and tears and ridiculous fights that she wished she could go back to. A giggle bubbled from her as she thought of watching Ron and Lavender snogging. It had cut her to the quick then, but now she would give anything for it to be possible again. The laughter shook the book from her hands, frothing from her lips down to her chest, shattering her until not even the leather binding of the book hitting the floor could pull her from her grief as tears spilled down her cheeks and incredulous joy became bottomless grief.

Snape arrived at nine on the dot, heavy boots thudding out from cool green flame. Hermione stood from her seat while Antonin looked on with sickle-bright eyes.

“Miss Granger, Antonin.” 

“Good evening, Professor.” Her fingers interlocked against her body. “It’s good to see you.”

He stared down his nose from his lofty height, fixing her with a suspicious gaze. “Indeed?” He flicked and arced until pulsing lights glowed over her body. “I am impressed, Antonin. She is very nearly healthy.” The familiar pale potion exchanged hands and she downed it before she could give anything away.

“Does she truly still need nourishment potions, Severus?” Antonin drawled from the side.

“Miss Granger was prone to neglecting her health in favor of her studies while at Hogwarts; a year on the run did her no favors,” the younger man intoned. “It may take quite some time before her body has made up for the lack.”

The lights faded from her and Snape turned. “Wait, professor.” He turned and the lift of one black brow sent a skittering of residual student fear through her. Hermione wiped sweating palms on her robes. “Have you still not found a librarian?”

“Why do you ask?” His low voice once would have set off alarms in the back of her mind, but she’d experienced far worse monsters since then.

She glanced over at one of those monsters questioningly.

“She would like to assist in the recovery of the library, perhaps become librarian herself, should I allow it.” Dolohov raised a black brow. “I am open to the first so long as I am present with her.”

Snape’s dark gaze flicked from captor to captive. “It will be a long and thankless task.” The girl nodded. “Very well. You may Floo into my office at nine and work until six. As I need time without your presence, you will also take weekends off. And, should Dolohov not wish to escort you, I will have one of my trusted staff members do so.”

“Thank you.” She smiled, rare and bright. 

The man glanced between them once more and took his leave, fire bathing the room in emerald.

“Come here.” Hermione turned away from the flowering fire to find hunger swallowing up his expression. She placed her hand in his imprisoning grip and he tugged her onto his lap facing him, knees straddling his hips so her robe rode up on her thighs. “My beautiful little lioness.” Dolohov stroked her cheek with rough knuckles. “This is something you want desperately, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” she murmured, studying his calculating lust. 

The corner of his mouth ticked up and he combed his fingers through her curls. “There is something I desire. I want you to demonstrate your willingness to me, Hermione. Can you do that?”

Caution wormed through her anxiously. “What is it?”

His eyes dropped to her lips as one thumb rolled the bottom one down to expose the glistening inner flesh. Dread scoured the reaches of her stomach as she caught his meaning, his hands sliding to push gently at her shoulders.

Hermione slid to the threadbare carpet, caged by the black bars of his legs on either side. He was staring down at her with eyes to rival the shadows dancing on the wall behind him. Fingers trailed in her hair to direct her closer and onto her knees. She ran sweaty palms over her lap and looked down, cheeks flaring with discomfort.

“Well, kitten?” He tilted her chin up to see her uncertain expression.

“I’ve never…” Hermione gestured vaguely and was rewarded by a low, masculine chuckle.

“I know, sweet girl. But you’re clever. I’m sure you understand the gist of it.” Antonin waited until she nodded. 

Her hands settled hesitantly on his thighs, smoothing over the cotton of his trousers. Her fingers touched the cool metal of his buckle and flinched away; she drew a deep, grounding breath and approached it once again, flicking the leather through its buckle with nervous rattles. His trousers had no zip, only buttons, and each felt like it was undoing her as well. She spread the material wide and squashed the urge to cry, easing her hand into the heated cave.

Hermione had normal teenage hormones and curiosity and had seen pictures, diagrams, descriptions. She’d even felt and seen  _ this  _ particular… penis before. But never up close. And she’d never handled it.

It was soft, like nothing she’d ever felt on the human body, almost velvety, and it twitched in her hand. She gawked at it in creeping fascination, her fingers attempting to find purchase on its changing length. It was growing at her uncertain touches.

“Like this.” A larger hand encompassed hers and tightened the grip on his shaft, setting a steady pumping motion that corkscrewed as it rose. It pulsed and hardened further. “Now, you can use this in conjunction with that pretty mouth. Experiment. You will know what I enjoy and what I don’t.”

Her tongue darted wetly across nervous lips as her eyes skittered up to him helplessly. He merely watched with heated amusement, and resolve settled at last. 

A quick dart of her tongue across the fat ridge of his head was her first taste; it was salty with the hint of sweat often present on human skin, but otherwise just the softness of flesh and the slight musk seemingly inherent in men. Surprisingly inoffensive, as Dolohov was keen on hygiene. He hummed at the sensation of her wet tongue, so she lapped at it again, her hand picking up its rhythm.

“Suck,  _ katyonok. _ ” Fingers tightening on her curls emphasized the words and she stole herself before engulfing his tip between her lips. Her mouth was opened wide around him as she tested the waters, tongue swirling. At his encouragement she took him deeper, until his spongy head bluntly met her soft palate and she gagged. He hissed and her watery eyes darted up to see his own close in pleasure before becoming slits to watch her. “Use your lips to cover your teeth, and relax your throat.”

She did as instructed, a furrow deepening between her brows. It was more intensive than she’d imagined, giving head. In the rare moments she spent thoughts on the idea, it had always consisted of vague images of bobbing a little up and down, little skill involved. Instead she found it was a complex activity.

Relaxing her throat was not easy when Antonin’s thick cock was trying to press into it. He nudged gently with his hips, hands pressing at her scalp until she opened and he could slip past, but her body rebelled, tears and snot cascading from her as she stared helplessly up at him. And he exuded all the pleasure of a leopard playing with a little mouse. 

“There we go, kitten, you’re taking me so well.” He guided her throat along his length with a steely fist and Hermione flooded with mortification as drool eased his way. When he tugged her mouth from him, it ran in long streams from her lips. He pumped himself with one large hand, traced her swollen lips with the tip. “My pretty little girl. Touch yourself.”

She blinked dizzily up at him. “What?” His wand twitched in her periphery and she was suddenly nude at his feet, shivering as her hands curled protectively over her breasts.

“I want you to put your fingers up your cunt and rub your clit with your thumb while you suck my cock.” Antonin ran the dribbling head of his length along her cheeks. “Now, kitten.” 

Hermione hesitantly did as he bade before swallowing the head of his length again. He immediately pushed toward the back of her throat and as she gagged, her whole body tightened, the two fingers inside of her squeezing and hitting her front wall. Slick gathered at her core and nauseating arousal permeated her veins.

Kneeling upward had made her oddly tight to her own touch, and her body was reacting in the strangest ways to this assault. Antonin slowly guided her throat along his cock so her mouth struggled to keep drool from pooling, each push down the back of her throat setting off a shameful chain reaction. 

“That’s it,” he cooed down at her. “Keep fucking that pretty pink cunt for me. Doesn’t it feel good when I gag you on my cock? Tighten your cunt around your fingers, hm?” Her body rebelled when he breached the back of her throat and kept pushing, hand flattening over the back of her head until her nose was buried in the curls at his base. Her free hand was pushing in futility at one black-clad thigh. “Fighting only makes it better for me,  _ katyonok _ , relax.” She was sputtering against him, around him, eyes swollen with tears and core pulsing at each torrent rippling down from her throat. A stream of Russian curses dripped from him until she finally stilled. “There. Good girl. Fuck yourself for me while I fuck your throat, hm?”

Before she could think through the meaning of his words, Dolohov once more fisted her hair and began maneuvering her head at a brutal pace. There was nothing she could do save try to keep her throat open, her mouth agape as drool slickened down her chin, neck, breasts. Wet gurgling noises betrayed her struggle and the hand inside of her pressed desperately as though to ground her by her center. Her walls fluttered helplessly, raw sensation bordering on pain sweeping through with each new thrust into her throat.

She could hardly hear the sick endearments from the man over her own gagging sounds, but by the stuttering of his hips and the pitch of his voice, she prayed he would soon finish. His testicles slapped at her chin, messing spittle further on her face, and then he finally held her head against him, pulsing in her throat, and thick semen spurted to coat her airway.

Antonin finally tugged her from his cock, head dribbling spend and spit across her bruised lips. His palm smeared the fluids across her face so even her eyelashes were sticky, then she was lifted to him, his mouth smashing into her own. “You did so well,  _ katyonok _ . I am very pleased with you.” He produced a kerchief and wiped and dabbed at the mess he’d made of her. He tipped her chin toward him, deep grey eyes burning into her own. “You are such a precious little thing, and beautiful when you submit to me.” He kissed the corner of her mouth. “I will speak with Snape concerning the library and see if we can come to an accord.”

Hermione smothered the roiling in her mind and nodded. “Thank you, Antonin.” If the disgusting act had made him amenable to the idea perhaps it was almost worth it.


	33. Moves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the library.

_ Ave Maria _ floated around her, the sweet, rounded notes almost too high for her soft hum. But the subtle, hopeful sadness suited her mood as she brushed dust off long-neglected books and categorized them with a mindful eye.

It was Hermione’s second day in the library, and she had realized upon first entering that it was a Herculean task that awaited her. Half the books and bookshelves were blasted and across the room in piles, so she must sort through those that could be salvaged, those that needed to be replaced, and those that were just gone. Then she would need to have the shelves replaced or repaired, and that did not take into account all that needed doing as far as the Restricted Section and the previously banned books stacked along the tables in said place. 

She would need someone with a wand for those, as many were cursed or spelled or otherwise in need of magical examination. But that would come later.

Antonin was watching her with a keen eye as she worked, and would interrupt her for meals and with reminders to hydrate. Otherwise he kept to himself at the librarian’s desk (which was the first thing she righted, asking his help for the magical portions), occasionally fielding queries from other Death Eaters.

It seemed Hogwarts was now central to Death Eater organization, at least during the summer. Men in dark cloaks roamed the halls, scurrying from office to Great Hall to whoever knew where. Snape had finally managed to get into the Headmaster’s quarters some time after the final battle, so he often took meetings there. As one of the Dark Lord’s most trusted, Snape delegated quite a bit. And the re-opening of Hogwarts was considered the highest priority after securing the government.

It was beginning to look like the school she’d known, though with changes that crawled along her skin with wrongness. Fewer portraits along the stone walls, missing statues and suits of armor.

Hermione plucked a book from the ruin of the Herbology section and blew gently over the embossed cover, and her heart sank at the title  _ 1,000 Magical Herbs and Fungi.  _ She flipped through the pages, the song falling from her lips as she checked it for damage.

“The Headmaster wants to see you, sir.”

She nearly dropped the book at the unknown voice, spinning on the spot and just barely not reaching for the wand that she no longer had. It was a young man, a Slytherin she thought graduated a few years ago. Dolohov narrowed his eyes at the boy. “Is that so?”

“Yes, sir. He instructed me to tell you I would watch Miss Granger while you were away and that it should be a quick meeting.” He looked decidedly less confident the longer he spoke, until he was wringing his hands at the end.

The burning grey coals redirected to Hermione. “Do you know this young man, pet?”

“No. We weren’t in the same year.”

Dolohov rolled his jaw and considered the young man. “You understand I will murder you if you touch her.” He nodded. “And you do not want to know what I will do if she is hurt, or worse, gone.” He stalked to her, gripped her chin in iron. “Do not give him any trouble. Do not even think of trying any Gryffindor nonsense. And do not let him touch you.”

“Of course, Antonin.” Her heart was like hummingbird wings in her throat. He nodded, kissed her gently, and walked away.

Hermione sank into the nearest chair and stared at the doorway as a wave of disbelief bowled over her. She was alone. Well, nearly. The former Slytherin was watching from a distance, clearly too nervous to approach her while also wanting to keep her in sight. If she had a wand, an invisibility cloak, a distraction,  _ anything _ she could get away. Perhaps take one of the passages-- well, the humpback witch was caved in, and who knew what the Room of Requirement was like-- so she could go into the Forbidden Forest. Without a wand. 

Still, this was something. Perhaps a sign that she could get away in the future. She could speak with Snape about Dolohov letting her alone. Oh, but Snape wanted her to stay with him, to continue being Antonin’s pet because it may prove useful. 

She sighed into her hands, hunched into herself on the wooden chair. She could scream for the helplessness setting her adrift in a sea of blind intrigue, in a storm she could feel but not see. At this rate she would drown.

A steady rhythm of step-step-tap interrupted the chorus of her railing powerless thoughts and Hermione looked up to be pinned by the icy gaze of Lucius Malfoy as he neared. 

He arched an aristocratic brow at her and leaned against a stand-alone bookshelf. “Well, well, well. The little bookworm has returned to her favored haunt. Or so my son always said. ‘The know-it-all mudblood always with her nose in a book.’”

Hermione crossed her arms under the cutting gaze of the older man; remembrance of their last meeting billowed across her mind and she felt too vulnerable, as though he still had clear sight of her body. The corner of his mouth ticked the slightest hitch. 

“Mister Malfoy,” she greeted evenly. 

He scanned over the silent library with his features set as neutral as a statue before studying her once more. “I’m surprised your  _ master _ has let you out of his sight considering how possessive he is. Merlin knows why.” A sneer distorted his patrician features.

“He’s speaking with Professor Snape.” Unbidden her eyes darted to the young man watching on nervously. Of course he wouldn’t have dared stopping Lucius Malfoy, though he was skittishly watching both the pair and the door as though Dolohov might enter at any moment. “But he left someone to watch.”

The sneer smoothed into a near-smirk. “So I see. Though such a boy is hardly suitable protection for Dolohov’s little pet.” 

Hermione pursed her lips. “Do I need more? After all, he’ll flay anyone who does anything to me.”

“That threat is only as strong as the perpetrator is weak. Unlike Antonin, I have never lost a duel to a child.” 

“It was hardly a duel.” She shrugged and fingered the scarlet silk of her dress.

Mr. Malfoy’s sickle-bright eyes narrowed. “Was that not the root of his initial fascination with you? I had thought he would get bored with you by now, little teenage mudblood, annoying if you believe Severus.” Gleeful cruelty flashed in his smile. “Your cunt must be heaven to have enraptured him so.”

Hermione coughed at his audacity, mouth mimicking the roundness of her eyes, and the fair man threw back his head in laughter.

“Have I offended your sensibilities? I did not imagine Dolohov’s whore would be so delicate. Or is your  _ daddy _ the only one allowed to whisper such words in the vicinity of your sensitive ears?”

“You’re disgusting.” She shoved herself from her chair to trudge to the pile of books and away from the man, but a pale steel hand shot around her bicep, swinging her back to look at him. 

“Am I really? You are the one fucking a man old enough to be your father.” His smile was shark as a dagger point. “Older, even. Do you think you’re doing something important by staying alive? Do you imagine you’re sacrificing yourself to some great cause? Noble little Gryffindor whoring herself out to remain alive and carry on the cause herself.”

“I’m not--”

“Don’t play coy with me, girl.” Mr. Malfoy shook her, looming threateningly over her. “I know Gryffindors. You lot always try to find meaning in life by imagining what you’re doing is for the greater good.” His eyes bored into her, searching and searing. “Do you even know who your allies are anymore? Do you imagine you have any?” He laughed and tossed her aside; Hermione was hardly able to keep herself on her feet. “This world values power above all. Antonin is content to merely survive, and all your little friends are under the control of the Dark Lord. You’ll have to learn to live with your pathetic life because you have no power to change it. And you’re unwilling to do what it takes to gain any.” He shook his head after another cursory study. “A waste.”

Hermione watched the man walk away, her head spinning as though storm-tossed. The Slytherin alum at the door stepped back from him and Mr. Malfoy sneered.

“Right. Fat lot of help you are,” she told him.

The dark-eyed boy glared. “He hardly molested you, Granger.”

“Coward.”

His wand flew into his hand. “Watch yourself, mudblood.”

“Or what?” she taunted, fury over her interaction with Malfoy the elder and her life in general feeding into her daring. “You’ll curse me? And have Dolohov use the  _ Cruciatus  _ on you until you piss yourself? He will, you know. If he isn’t above using the curse on me, he won’t hesitate using it on you.” 

“I’m a Death Eater,” the nameless young man spat. “And you’re just a mudblood.”

Hermione scoffed and tossed her curls back. “He  _ likes _ me, you arse. Or do you not remember what he said before he left?” She quirked a brow as the Slytherin thought back and slowly lowered his wand.

“Enjoy his protection while it lasts. I’m sure it will run out one day.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow on Twitter. Or don't. But hi.


	34. Countermoves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione receives orders from the resistance.

He’d become comfortable with her relative safety in the library, though he still opted to stay with her more often than not. Whenever Snape sent for Antonin he would include a guard to watch her and ensure no one did whatever the Death Eaters feared. The boy from the last time had not returned, but it was mostly lower order individuals over all. She had little opportunity for divisive action, especially when Death Eaters she knew would occasionally peek in to watch the tamed lioness organize books.

That was, until the evening Dolohov hissed and grasped at his forearm. “Shit.” The dark man rose like a shadow and stormed to the door. “You! Fetch Severus. Tell him my pet requires a guard.” After a pregnant pause he demanded, “Well?”

It was much too soon when Snape entered the stacks, obsidian eyes cutting through her. “I take it you received the Dark Lord’s summons? I had hoped he’d give me a moment to warn you.”

“Yes, I--”

“I’ll stay with Miss Granger, go on then.”

Tension strummed between them before Dolohov nodded and disapparated to wherever his master was. She loathed that, the new permission for Death Eaters to apparate in Hogwarts. It was tied to the Dark Mark, surely, as those without it came via other means (usually the front gate).

Hermione was too aware under her former professor’s eyes, each movement of her muscles a conscious choice as she wiped away dust and inspected tomes. He was lasered on her and she knew something was finally going to happen.

“Miss Granger.” Her skeleton attempted to flee her flesh at the nearness of his low voice. How she had not noticed the long shade of his body fall over her she did not know. One black brow rose inquiringly as he stared down his long nose at her.

“You startled me. Sorry.”

The brow lowered, corner of his lip twitching. “You recall our former conversation?”

His tone conveyed the truth of his meaning and she nodded slowly, the memory of her one night of freedom rising through the tide of her thoughts.

“I have a task for you.” His coal black eyes burned into her. “It is distasteful, but critical.”

Her throat was tight with unspoken hope. “I understand.”

“You must not allow any suspicion to be cast upon your actions, do you understand? No one can think you were complicit, or you may endanger your position.” She nodded again. “You will distract Dolohov tomorrow night. You will delay his sleep, weather him down, ensure he does not want to leave you for anything short of a summons from the Dark Lord himself.”

“Why?” was out before she could help herself, ever the curious Gryffindor even in Hell.

His lips pursed as he rolled his jaw in irritation. “The less you know, the better. As it is, your rudimentary Occlumency is enough of a risk. You will practice further compartmentalizing these thoughts and placing those related to our discussions in memories you do not wish others to share. By doing so, you may fool those who delve into your mind that those are the memories you are protecting and nothing more. The deeper you hide these moments, the better. Understood?”

She stared up at him with umber eyes flickering in the candlelight. “But how am I supposed to distract him like that? That’s… that’s impossible.”

A long-suffering sigh stirred around the man and he rubbed at his temples. “You are the only one capable of such a feat.” Snape’s hand lowered and his gaze whipped down her form before meeting her eyes again. “You have everything you need at your disposal.  _ Use it. _ ”

“You want me to--” Disgust rose through her throat and leeched into her voice. “That’s-- that is--”

He silenced her with cold, cutting eyes. “We do what we must, Miss Granger. If we wish to see a new day, sacrifices must be made.” He turned in a flourish of black robes, long strides taking him to the doors before she could manifest a response. A young Death Eater popped in at his behest and took up her guardianship. 

Hermione stared back at the doors through which the headmaster had disappeared, tears overwhelming her in a tangle of hot knots leading down her throat. Snape was asking her to whore herself out for their cause. There was no doubt that was his intention. He wanted her to distract Dolohov and keep him up and focused on her, and how else could she do that but with her body? With his  _ obsession _ . And she had to do it without arousing suspicion. 

_ What the fuck _ , she screamed through her echoing mind.  _ What in Merlin’s name is happening? I’m eighteen years old; what the bloody Hell does Severus Snape expect me to do? Climb onto Dolohov’s lap and--?  _

_ Even if I somehow made myself do that, how would it not seem suspicious? I have never… instigated before; he must know I don’t want him. So how? _

It was all too much, seeping through her skin and surrounding her until she was nearly smothered. Hermione fell into the chair nearest and buried her face in her hands as her mind whirlpooled,

“Alright there, Granger?” Her head snapped up and she blinked until the figure nearing her came into focus. 

Marcus Flint, every bit as immense as she remembered, stopped a few paces from her, his heavy brows furrowed. In her distress, she hadn’t noticed Snape had set him over her.

“Er, yes. Just a bit tired.”

He studied her with eyes keen from often overseeing others; he was captain of the Slytherin Quidditch team when Harry first started, if she recalled correctly (and she usually did). “Then get the fuck back to work.”

Her eyes widened at his crass words, but Hermione nodded and turned her back to him.  _ Time to start formulating plans. _

By dinner that evening Hermione had decided she would test the waters with Antonin. If he responded without suspicion to a slight initiation of affection, tomorrow she would attempt to see how far she could take it. And if not… well, she had an unfortunate plan for that as well.

“Will you join me for a nightcap?” Hermione had learned to discern when Dolohov was truly asking versus when he was making a show of it. This was the former; while she usually declined given the opportunity, she stole herself with a breath and smiled.

“Sure.” His silver eyes shone as he stood and proffered a hand to her, leading the way to the sitting room. Antonin let loose her hand and eased into his high backed chair, but she trailed behind and stood fidgeting before him.

His head tilted, tame curls slipping across his cheek as he studied her. “Is there something you need, kitten?” Antonin cupped her face, thumb lovingly running the length of her cheekbone.

She swallowed past her pounding pulse. “I thought…” Hermione laid a trembling hand over his knee and bit her lip, hoping he would take the initiative. 

His eyes were narrowed at her, falling from her own to her lips to her hand on him. Her heart was stuttering in fear until he grasped her forearm and tugged her into his lap, lips moving against her curls. “Is this what you wanted?”

In through her nose and out through tense lips. She bobbed her head and tried to settle against him.

“You know I would not deny you affection, kitten, but I am surprised that you sought it out.” Bristling scruff brushed at her hair. He tipped her chin toward him with one gentle finger. “Are you beginning to warm toward me?” Fearful black swallowed her irises. “Perhaps not yet. But you’re trying perhaps? Seeing if this might sweeten my disposition toward you?”

Hermione shrugged uncomfortably, her cheeks heating under the scrutiny.

“Do you want something, sweet girl?” Antonin nosed down to her ear, breath hotly tingling across her skin. “Is that why you have climbed into my lap?”

“No,” she whispered. ”I just… I wanted…”

He stroked her side, holding her firmly against him. “You just wanted what, kitten? To stay in my good graces? To encourage my kindness?”

That was a far better conclusion than the truth, so she nodded and her eyes shifted toward the fireplace as though guilt stirred.

Antonin chuckled warmly. “Well, that is a manipulation I can accept.” A few deft flicks of his wand and liquor poured into a crystal tumbler, which he plucked from the air to sip. “Of course, there are many ways to-- what is the phrase? Butter me up?” Amusement tinged his voice and he held the glass to her lips for her to drink. “I would so enjoy you begging for my cock, sweet girl. Waking me with that pretty little mouth. Sneaking into my bed or my shower. So many options for you.” He kissed the corner of her mouth, feeling the tremble of her lower lip at the ideas swirling around them. “My scared little kitten.  I wonder if you will ever enjoy the extent of my own pleasures. Though your fear, your resistance, will always be beautiful.”

“I’m trying,” she reiterated with a voice as small as she felt. 

Antonin held her jaw between steel fingers and plunged his tongue into her mouth, roaming possessively over her own. His fingers were bruisingly tight, his grip around her waist following suit, and she could feel the hardness forming underneath her. When he pulled back ropes of spit broke between their lips. “I was going to give you a reprieve tonight. But you are so tempting, I want to devour you completely. Can I do that, Hermione? Can I take you below and carve into your pretty skin with knives and wipes and canes? Can I fuck you while dragging a blade across your flesh?”

She was shaking and realized her mistake in dizzying, nauseating waves. Dolohov so craved her compliance that the barest shred of it was as tantalizing as the fruit on a tree just out of reach. If he took her violently tonight she would be unable to bring herself to endure the same tomorrow. “Please, no.”

He chuckled, combing a hand through her curls. “Then I will take you with only my body tonight?” Antonin had her drink more before polishing off the rest of alcohol. He stood with her in his arms. “You will hurt, but you will not bleed, my delicious little one.”

Hermione’s mind churned and spluttered, failing to find a way out that would not give her away. She would have to submit this night, and face tomorrow anew.


	35. Answer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione discovers the solution to her problem.

The day was weaning into night and Hermione paced the library with a book in hand, scanning the page fruitlessly as her mind fought her on a solution to the puzzle Snape had given her. Antonin had kept to his word and used only his hands, mouth, and cock to hurt her, but that had still left her painted with swathes of purple and red, peppered with brown and green spots, her core aching. Approaching a second night would be too much.

“Bloody Hell.” She was chasing herself in circles, mind a merry-go-round as the insistent little voice of logic told her the answer and the rest of her rebelled in horror. 

It would make sense, especially given the previous night, but she did not know if she could handle that. Dolohov had shown streaks of his cruelty, but she knew each time she saw that side of him she was flying too close to the fire. And there was only so much of her to burn.

But Snape had said to use every tool at her disposal and this was a valid option. There was no doubt in her mind she could do it, and that he would believe Hermione was behaving that way out of shame for the evening prior. 

The thought bubbled up that she might enjoy this option; at least, she might enjoy the part where she got to piss him off. The rest Hermione was certain would not be pleasant. It may even undo some scraps of the kindness he’d shown, the liberties he’d allowed. Would he remove her access to quills and ink and parchment?

Her slippered feet froze on the hardwood floor. The possibility of her captor removing writing utensils, books, the blanket she used in the library when cold, all those little comforts extended to her-- it wrenched at her heart.

Every tool she had. Because she was the only one who could do this. 

Hermione flipped to the next page, taking in none of it but aware that the door was open and Antonin could interrupt at any moment. She needed to seem normal, whatever that meant in the new world, so she would pretend to read unless she could actually convince herself to do so.

The dinner bell rang calling her to the table and her mind was still milling against the current. She slid into her seat, Antonin sliding her chair forward for her and taking his own. 

“How was your reading this afternoon, love?” He cut into the roast, slicing a bite-size chunk of the rare meat; her own was already in pieces as she was not allowed knives.

Hermione shoved her food around with a silver fork, appetite retreating in the wake of her looming deadline. “Fine.”

“Did you find any interesting new theories?”

She stabbed a steamed vegetable and shoved it in her mouth before responding with, “No.”

Long fingers drummed on the tablecloth, spelling out the measure of his irritation. “Hermione, kitten, are you unwell?”

His patience would wear thin if she kept on like this, she knew the signs by this point. However, it might help her in her task. It certainly shouldn’t hurt; she’d already been ordinary enough for the day. And the roiling fury at herself, the man beside her, and her plight had all been simmering for months. This was an opportunity to let it loose. Why not enjoy herself while accomplishing the mission?

Burying the fiery amusement at her train of thoughts, her joy in her belligerent behavior, Hermione said, “No.”

“You’ve hardly touched your food, love. You know I can’t abide you starving yourself.” She shrugged, and Dolohov reached for her hand. 

She snatched it away, scowling darkly. “Don’t.”

His anger was palpable as it seethed across to her. She scooped up her fork as though to eat more, but when his hand rushed toward her again, she stabbed into it until it tore through parchment thin flesh.

Dolohov roared, hand flinging the silver utensil across the room, blood flying with it. “You little bitch.” His wand tore the air, rending Hermione from her chair and slamming her into the thick glass behind her. The cold of the night seeped through to freeze her blood; his eyes flashed silver fury as scarlet dripped around his palm. “Is this repayment for my kindness?” At her incredulous scoff the knuckles of his free hand swung against her cheek. “Yes,  _ kindness _ , mudblood. Was I not my gentler self for you last night?” He stroked the back of his bleeding hand against her reddened cheek, voicing dropping to raging intimacy. “You begged so prettily. ‘Please, no.’ And I forewent my crueler desires.”

Her eyes were amber bright as they filled with angry tears. “I didn’t want it.”

She could hear his blood as it dropped against her dress in the silence that followed. His eyes were burning into hers, then a sneer curled his lip. “You were not adverse to it when you came apart around my cock last night,  _ katyonok _ .” Her cheeks reddened until they matched in hue. “Ah. You feel guilty for enjoying it, don’t you? Is that what this is about; your Gryffindor sensibilities cry out for punishment for taking pleasure at the hands of your enemy. Oh, kitten, you only needed to ask.”

She was once more hanging in a dungeon, only the balls of her feet able to gain purchase beneath her. Gooseflesh trickled down her bare skin; he’d rid her of that burden while still pressed against the window in the dining room. Once she was properly hung, Antonin had informed her she would wait there while he finished his evening as usual. Hermione thought more than an hour had passed by this point, having gone through the process of making Acid Inhibitor Potion and beginning on a simple Healing Potion. 

It was sometime after she’d finished that that Dolohov’s heavy boots trod down the stairs and into the dungeon. Her back was to the entrance so she did not see him, but Hermione knew the weight of his gaze on her, as familiar as the weight of Harry’s invisibility cloak.

“You do look pretty strung up for me,  _ katyonok. _ I had hoped the next time would be for pleasure.” His hand smoothed up her side, flushing her sensitive skin with warmth. “But it seems you also have needs. And what my little girl needs I will happily provide.” 

She drew in a shuddering breath and reminded herself why she was doing this. The Order-- the DA-- whatever the resistance was now, it needed her. She was the only one who could do this. Unlike every time before, this was for a cause. She could do this. 

The words rang hollow in her chest.

Stubble scoured at her shoulder as he nuzzled her. “Will you ask me for it, kitten?”

“What?” It was breathy, disbelieving. 

“Ask me to punish you.” The words were hot against her throat. “And perhaps I will not carve my name into your flesh to remind you of your place.” Hermione shivered, but firmed her jaw. Even if his threat became reality, it wouldn’t be a first for her. Just another scar to add to her growing collection.

His lips trailed over her throat and to her nape as he pushed aside her curls. “I see.” Dolohov pulled away with a suffering sigh, leaving her colder than before. He circled around and pinched at her nipples, studying her reaction with a detached expression. “I gave you a chance to beg my forgiveness.” He snatched her jaw in a steely grip so that her teeth could not clench together, then lowered his lips to slot against her mouth. “I will see your pretty little face in the morning.”

Her brows pinched as he backed away, wand rising. Then darkness shadowed her world, bunched her curls tighter to her head, and settling scratchily against her throat. He had hooded her. 

The first tendrils of true terror writhed up her stomach. What the bloody Hell had she done to herself?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will probably be posting two endings for this story. One will be the true ending and may have the possibility of a sequel. I miiiight also do outtakes that will include snippets from other timeline endings.
> 
> Follow on the Tweeter for more info. I also update news letters elsewhere.
> 
> The next chapter is from Antonin's perspective and will feature violence, abuse, rape.


	36. Sight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dolohov exacts his punishment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dark chapter ahead includes rape, cutting, blood, punching, burning, degrading language, etc. You should skip if these things trigger you. Please read the tags to make sure you're good to go. Not every chapter will feature these things.

Her hearing muffled, her sight gone, Hermione’s body tensed deliciously. Her little breasts shook with the force of her breaths. It would be warm under her hood, her breathing creating an uncomfortably humid atmosphere within the canvas. 

Antonin leaned against the wall to appreciate her beautiful helplessness for a moment. Her body was only slightly blemished by his attentions the night before; the deepening circles from his teeth, the peppered fingerprints along thighs and hips and arms. If anything, the reds and purples just made him want to paint a galaxy of bruises across her body. 

His hand pulsed around his wand, drawing his mind back to the reason she was stretched taut before him. A curl of agitation rippled across his chest, heating him from within. Hermione had been doing so well; he thought her actions the night before were a sign that she was learning to yield to him in truth. Antonin should have anticipated a resultant. 

But violence? To attack him with a fork was beyond what he should have expected. Antonin was kind enough that he’d allowed her everything but a knife for meal service, but she threw it in his face.  _ That _ would need to be remedied. Perhaps he’d feed her oats and broth until she had finally learned her place. She could lap it out of a bowl like the dirty, disobedient pet she was. The idea was not at all disagreeable.

Shushing noises drew him back to her current predicament; she was shifting the weight on her feet, stretching and trying vainly for comfort. Antonin worked his hand, let the pain from the small wound he hadn’t healed fuel the coil of anger-tinged sadism at his root.    


She deserved pain; she needed correction. Only through pain could he mold her to fit in her place. 

Antonin paced and considered how he would start. She needed to be… more available to him. He flicked his wand and her legs were chained apart, splayed too wide, so he had access to every little part of her. A thought spun through him and his lips curved into a pitiless smile. She rose, her head now above his own, all of her soft parts easy to reach.

His hands explored her cool, cashmere skin, his flesh pale against the deeper gold of her. Such soft, pretty skin, so tempting. He scraped nails over the inside of her thighs, her hips failing to jut away as red lines rose to the surface. He patted her in amusement, soothing her back to her nervous apprehension then backed into the instinctual form before swinging a fist at the meat of her thigh.

A strangled cry fell onto his ears and his cock twitched. Yes, that would bruise beautifully. He slid his wand into his sheath and punched with that fist. The stronger side rippled through her and enhanced the blooming scarlet on her thigh. Her cry was strangled this time; he wondered if she could hyperventilate from him transforming her into his personal punching bag.

Antonin decided to try, raining blows across her soft thighs and her firm ass. He scratched at her sides, squeezed until she was wheezing through the hood. When he slammed his fist into her gut her body seized to double over, but she was locked firmly in her bonds. He could not help but suck in one of her velvet nipples as guttural moans sang to him. 

Antonin groaned, tugging her sweet peak between his teeth as he pulled away until it popped out, darkened by his bite.

She was a garden just opening to the sun and he would plant his seed and paint her with the most striking blossoms.

“Are you enjoying your punishment,  _ katyonok _ ?” The bag rotated in the motion for denial and he chuckled. “I am enjoying it very much. But I realize I overlooked one of my favorite torments. Shall I do so now?” Her head shook again. “No? But you know it  _ will _ be cast during this session.” He could hear incomprehensible begging from beneath the bag on her head. Poor creature. His smile curved more deeply at the weak sobs as she tried to bargain. Of course, she didn’t know he’d made sure her words were incoherent to him.

He bit into the sweet muscle atop her shoulder and felt it rebel against his teeth. “I won’t use it on you now.” And he continued the brutal assault with his fists until his knuckles felt the impacts. “You deserve this.” Antonin slapped at her through the hood. “You asked for it when you dared harm me, my little mudblood whore. I warned you not to anger me.” He slapped her sweet little tits, her nipples swelling with the sting. He wandered lower, palming her cunt. “You will learn to appreciate my kindness, or you will be the conduit for my rage.” He pulled back his hand only to bring it down over her nether lips. Again and again, until it was a matching red to her breasts. His fingers darted to her swollen clit, rubbing furiously to torment her writhing body, then trailed to her hole, two fingers diving roughly. She was dry and it no doubt hurt, but he screwed two fingers inside her until her body responded to the intrusion by slickening.

Antonin pulled away, sucking his fingers clean as he stewed on his next cruelty. She would have swathes of purple across her body soon, but there was so much more pain to wring from her. 

His wand slipped into his hand and a murmured spell had the tip glowing ember orange. Antonin stroked his wand up her tricep, the hot end hovering over her to let her feel the threat. She was shaking, but desperately attempting to keep still as he drew patterns above her skin. When his empty hand slapped her side, she jumped, and the sweet cry that pierced the air her flesh singed was ambrosia to his ears. 

“You smell sweet,  _ katyonok _ , though there is the curious tang of burning hair masking it. Hm.” His wand dimmed and flicked and all the hair below her head disappeared. “There.” The glow returned and he slid it over her stomach and pinched one nipple. A line of searing red burned across her abdomen, jagged at the end from her squirms.

“If only you kept still you would not have to worry about burns. But you can’t help yourself, can you, kitten?” A punch to her thigh created a burn on one breast that just touched her areola. Antonin could not help but lick a stinging stripe up it that set little taps of his wand typing against her ribs. “Delicious. Perhaps it is time to carve you up.” Her adamant shaking head made him chuckle. “More burns then.” 

He forewent the game then, his lust for pain gathering like a tidal wave. He streaked up her tits, the line of her spine, the bottom of her feet, between the toes; those last set her straining impossibly, his cock growing with every hoarse cry. His blood screamed through his ears and he resheathed his wand in favor of a knife. Her fear only heightened the pleasure as he slid it across unblemished swathes of flesh. Her blood soon ran in scarlet rivulets down her body, the higher drips drying in flakey lines before they could fall from her. 

Sweat had dried on her body long before he was finished, and he stepped back to admire her form decorated in layers of pain; bruises spanned in ever-deepening shades, glaring red burns, lines of rusting blood. Strands of her hair that had escaped confinement clung to her skin. She had never looked so beautiful. 

Antonin’s fingers returned to her core which fear had kept moist for him. He circled her clit, tested her depths, then opened his trousers to release himself. The fat head of his cock ran along her slit and she did not react beyond a shudder. It twitched in his hand as he thought of what he was about to do to her, then battered into her.

So tight, to perfect. He did not doubt it hurt her, unprepared as she was for him. He held onto her hips and worked himself into her in ruthless strokes, pace increasing once he was fully seated. The height of her bonds, the width of her spread legs all opened her to him so he pressed deeply into her cunt. He moaned as he saw her lower abdomen pulsing with his thrusts. 

“Perfect,  _ katyonok. _ You’ll be good for me now, won’t you?” The bag bobbed with her ardent agreement. “I want you to come for me.” A broken sob thrummed through her. “I’ll help you, kitten.” Wand tip falling to her clit, he murmured, “ _ Pulso _ ,” and deep vibration settled into the bundle of nerves.

Within seconds she was responding, her walls tightening around his cock as he drove into her, tension seeping into her. “Good girl. Come for me.” Antonin slammed his hips into hers, driving with brutal thrusts. He grabbed the rope holding the bag around her throat and tightened until she twitched. When he released it, he heard her strangled moans through the canvas. The way she was gripping him, she was almost there, and pushing him toward the edge. Antonin held back with a fingernail grip, delaying his own pleasure, hissing through clenched teeth.

When her walls began to wave and flutter around his cock and an unwilling groan spilled from her lips, he knew this was the moment. He milked her orgasm from her with fingers and teeth and cock. And just when it began subsiding, the gentlest whisper escaped his lips. “ _ Crucio. _ ”

The wracking pain and silent screams were in perfect harmony with his own climax, a symphony of pain and pleasure that whited out the back of his eyelids and sent electricity across his skin.

Antonin held her body against his, stroking her back as he panted against her shoulder, murmuring endearments and curses she would not understand even unhooded and conscious. She sagged what little her bonds allowed and he planted kisses between words. He could not help how each involuntary twitch of her threatened to make him rise again. She was too tempting, too lovely even in her disobedience. He would need her again soon.

His hands mapped the ruin of her body and he cursed his age. In his younger days he would be ready again. Regardless, he still had  _ some  _ stamina. He would wait inside her until he was ready again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you skipped the chapter, Dolohov hooded Hermione and used burning, cutting, punching, and degrading language during punishment. Forced orgasms and use of the Cruciatus as well. He's also considering further actions, such as not allowing her forks and making her eat out of bowls without spoons.


	37. Price

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione finds out why she had to distract Dolohov.

When Hermione came to, the Death Eater was pumping into her-- again or still, she wasn’t sure. Her body was a molten landscape of pain, a buffet from deep and throbbing to sharp edges. And he still had that cruel spell on her, the one that made her quake with unbidden pleasure. 

He sighed against her, mouth pressing the heat of his breath through her hood and she felt herself dripping with his fluids. He was speaking incomprehensible words to her, stroking her reverently as he came down from the orgasmic high.

The hood was pulled from her head and light blinded Hermione’s swollen, red eyes. She blinked and narrowed them to see the world. Dolohov disengaged from her and more of his seed ran down her thighs. 

“Welcome back.” His own eyes were heavy-lidded, the gaze of a leopard sated after the hunt. “Have you had enough, then,  _ katyonok _ ?” She nodded, wincing at the chain of pain any movement brought. “You will be a good girl for me? Ah, say it, kitten.”

Dry tongue rent across dry lips. “I will be good.” His eyes flashed. “Antonin. I’ll be good, Antonin.”

He stroked damp, frizzing curls from her cheek. “Let’s get you cleaned up, hm?”

She was lowered slowly, toes scraping against the rough stone floor, and she hissed when her feet flattened on the floor. Her arches were on fire. And then the shackles on her wrists released and she collapsed.

The deeply masculine chuckle surrounded her as Antonin bent to gather her in his arms. She was shaking with the effort of controlling her own bodyweight, but he easily held her to his chest. He hummed Russian sentiments in her ear as he carried her up the stairs and to his ensuite. 

He crouched and half-rested her weight on one knee as he turned the handle controlling the water. It spouted out in a steaming river of lilac scented water. He eased her into the tub and she wrapped her arms around her knees lest she fall apart, hissing as the hot water seeped into cuts and soothed deep bruises. 

The water sloshed and then large arms tugged her between long legs. Antonin was holding her.

Hermione jerked away, lancing herself with the ghosts of her punishment.

“Shush, kitten. Let me take care of you.” One hand flattened against her chest to tug her against his own. “I will not use magic to heal you, but I will take care of you regardless.” He kissed her neck, rubbed raw from the hood, then took up a cloth and soap and began washing her from head to toe.

It was unscented soap, and he did not apply it to the burns directly, she noticed. His hands were thorough and tender, rubbing at stiff muscles and patting away bloody wounds. He hummed a strange song as he moved over her, tending to every part of her without hesitation, then he scrubbed himself efficiently.

“Hold tight, kitten. I will dry myself first.” He did so with his wand, though he toweled her with a soft length of cloth, draping another around her shoulders after using it on her damp curls.

“Now sit still.” Hermione sat back on the lid of the toilet as Antonin procured a tube of ointment and knelt before her. He smoothed the cooling gel over the burns of her feet as though he hadn’t caused them himself. Between her toes and up her arches, little lines on her thighs, her chest. She had to stand, gripping one of his arms for dear life, for him to reach some,. But when he had catered to those and her knife cuts, he swept her up again and to his bed.

As Antonin pulled her to his chest and lavished affection upon her, Hermione’s mind was curiously empty but for little thoughts that slowly swam to the surface. She found she could either ignore them so they sank below the surface once more, or she could reel them to her. It was peaceful but for the tenderness of her body. 

“I thought you would be angry.”

He trailed kisses from her ear to her throat. “I was.” Fingertips skirted the damage on her thigh. “I find myself unable to remain angry at you. You look lovely in pain, and your cunt… like it was made for me.” His hips pushed against her and her eyes widened. “No fear,  _ katyonok _ . I have spent myself inside you enough tonight.”

Tonight… her brows pinched at the niggling of the word and her mission cast a shadow beneath the surface of her thoughts. Her gaze flicked to the windows, where dim light was beginning to whisper at the edges. Twilight hour.

“How do you feel?”

Hermione considered, studying the softness of his expression. “Still.”

His brows twinged upward. “How do you mean?”

“It’s like…” She closed her eyes and the nimbus of her inner world permeated all. “It’s like everything has been flooded and I float over it, staring down at the stillness of the lake where my thoughts reside. I can see the shadows of some as they swim below the surface, but it is so easy to push them away and continue floating. Continue  _ being. _ ”

He was pensive when she opened her eyes again. “Pain can do that. I know your mind is often a churning, boiling place. Enjoy the silence, pet.” He tugged her to his chest and stroked her hair until she caved to deep exhaustion.

The shout dumped her into consciousness, hand reaching for a wand no longer existent before she came into the present. The bed was empty beside her, covers mussed where Dolohov had lain before. The door was cracked, no doubt left that way for her. That was where the voices seeped through.

Hermione tossed aside the blankets, sliding her feet into the slippers at the side. There was a dressing gown laid out for her as well and she wrapped it around herself securely and ventured down the hall, wincing at her first few steps.  _ That’s right _ , she thought.  _ I’m battered from head to the very soles of my feet. _

“ _ Your _ bloody house elf should be punished!” There was something about that voice, but she couldn’t place it exactly. 

“ _ My _ house elf was following my instructions.” That was Antonin, his voice a menacing growl. “Nothing short of the Dark Lord himself was to interrupt me.”

Hermione had drawn close enough to peek through the doorway; Rodolphus Lestrange stood nearly toe-to-toe with Dolohov, of a similar enough height that neither exactly loomed over the other, though Dolohov had filled out more since Azkaban. Rabastan stood near the hearth, watching like a reed caught in the wind of their fury. In the shadows the pale flesh of Professor Snape gave away his presence.

The elder Lestrange sneered. “Yes, I’m sure playing house with your precious mudblood is far more important than helping your brothers in arms--”

“Brother?” Incredulity colored Dolohov’s already sharp tone. “You are hardly worth the Mark on your arm. Your name and your wife are more responsible for your standing than your own worth.”

“You absolute--”

“Gentlemen,” cut in the detached voice of Snape, so used to silencing unruly crowds with a word or less. “Perhaps we could have a civilized discussion on our next course of action rather than fighting like schoolyard children.”

Lestrange seemed about to retort, but his brother drew him back with a hand on his shoulder and a sharp shake. “Whatever. I am not in the mood to deal with this.” He cast powder into the hearth and stepped through with a muttered destination.

Rabastan, gaunt and whipcord thin, shrugged helplessly and followed.

“Fucking cowardly arse.” Dolohov dropped into his chair, snarling at the fire as though he could still see Lestrange in the embers.

Snape rolled his eyes but upon gazing forward, they trailed over her. A black brow rose and he gestured her forward. “We have company.” 

Dolohov’s head snapped toward, features contorted until he realized who it was and they softened to fondness. “Come here, sweet girl.” She padded to him as lightly as she could on her damaged feet and he scooped her into his lap, burying his nose in her hair. “Did we wake you?”

“It’s fine.” It stung where she sat on him and where his hand rubbed over her as though she were his touchstone. “Why is he so angry?”

It was Snape who answered, taking up the seat closest. “He was scurrying for help last night, called upon nearly every Death Eater he thought he might trust a knut, and Antonin did not even deign to hear his plea.”

“Why?” Hermione tensed as the word flew out. She must have been mad; here Dolohov had tortured her for hours the night before and she was just speaking without thought. But he didn’t look upset with her, instead stroking soothing fingers down her back.

“He lost his ward,” the Death Eater said, possessive hands roaming her as dark humor underscored his meaning.

His ward? His ward, the Lestrange ward was Neville. Her eyes grew to Galleons and she turned to Professor Snape, who was cool as the Black Lake. 

“Neville escaped.” It was a breath, a hope, a wonderment. 

Warm chuckling vibrated against her throat. “Indeed. And Lestrange hoped to recapture him before the Dark Lord was informed. The boy is still at large and he knows better than to let the Dark Lord find out through other means.”

“Indeed.” Snape’s visage was neutral, but she knew he himself was not. “His lax security measures will ensure he never keeps such a valuable ward again. Fortunate for the survivors, as the whole family is twisted.” As his tongue stilled, his brows twitched and black eyes roamed over her. She was mostly covered, but something must have levied the professor’s suspicion. “Miss Granger, would you be so kind as to stand for me?”

Antonin’s arms became a trap. “There’s no need, Severus. Your monthly appointment just passed.”

“Nevertheless, I would like to check her.”

Dolohov’s jaw firmed. “No.”

The headmaster rose and flicked the diagnostic on her anyway, and riotous light kaleidoscoped across her. “This is how you spent your evening? This is what was more important than keeping one of the leading rebels under control?”

“Leading rebel? He’s a child, a schoolboy.” Dolohov tucked her against him, head under his chin. “And what I do with Hermione is not your concern.”

“Have you forgotten my task?”

“No; you have performed your task for the month, and you can look in on her again next month. Otherwise, her care is my concern and mine alone.” His heart was thrumming against her cheek. 

“The girl is in a bad way, Dolohov.” His voice was softer as he switched tacts. “Her ribs are bruised, as are other of her bones. Lacerations, burns. She could have had broken ribs, internal bleeding--”

“I appreciate your concern, but I am skilled in what I do,” Antonin answered. “And I can also cast diagnostics. She was in no danger, or I would have taken further action.”

Snape was silent a moment. “Allow me to heal--”

“No.” Antonin’s voice was polite, but firm. “This was a punishment. She will heal from it the muggle way until and unless I deem otherwise.” He nuzzled his chin against her. “She knew that before she acted out.

“Very well.” Hermione could feel the weight of Snape’s obsidian consideration. “I will leave you to your day then.” 

Dolohov didn’t speak as his guest left via Floo. For long moments he just held her, delighting in the warmth and weight of her. “Did you sleep well, love?”

No dreams swirled at the back of her mind, no memories of tossing and turning, or waking during the night. “Yes,” she said truthfully, though her body ached in a denial of its own. 

“Good.” He kissed her forehead, shifting her sideways on his lap. “We’ll eat here this morning. I allowed you to sleep in, as your body needed the rest. Tippy!” The elf popped in and bowed, sweeping her long ears low. “Breakfast service here today. Thank you.” As the elf popped back away, Dolohov slipped off her soft shoes and summoned the burn ointment from his room and used his thumb to layer it over her arches. Hermione watched as he worked, slipping open her robe to slather those as well until the elf returned with food. His expression was tender, completely at odds with the monster she’d experienced the night before.

A spoon dipped into creamy porridge and floated to her mouth. She opened obediently when tapped her lip, and swallowed down the mouthful. When he had sufficiently layered her accessible burns, Antonin took up feeding her himself, occasionally taking a bite for himself. He kept her to soft foods mostly-- the porridge and pumpkin juice, but toward the end took up a slice of orange. When juice spilled out the corner of her mouth, he wiped it away and kissed the spot. “There. Lovely. Would you like a book to read for the day, kitten? You’re to stay off your feet until I’m satisfied they’ve healed enough.”

“But the library, Hogwarts--”

“You will be abstaining from your duties until then as well.” Hermione prepared an argument, but his knife-silver eyes sliced through it before it left her lips. “You should be glad I allow you anything, pet, after your stunt yesterday evening. I’ve half a mind to tie you down on my bed until you heal and then allow you shackles only long enough to relieve yourself.”

Fear wound its shooting tendrils up the wall of her stomach. “I’m sorry, Antonin.” Her throaty apology nearly locked in her vocal chords. 

“Are you truly?” He tipped her chin up with one hooked finger, inspecting her eyes with his own sharp as an eagle. She nodded. “And are you grateful I am restraining myself from further punishments?”

The tendrils squeezed her heart painfully, images of herself struggling against manacled ankles flashing through her mind. “So grateful, Antonin.”

“Hm. We shall see. The book, kitten?”

“Er,  _ Hogwarts: A History _ , please.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know the last chapter probably lost a lot of people, but I've tried to be as open about the trajectory of the story (insofar as I knew myself, since this wasn't planned very far). ShadowSurfing commented about being disillusioned toward Dolohov through that chapter, and that's exactly what I wanted. Yes, though her time with Dolohov started with a horrible "punishment," he'd lowered everyone's guard with his romantic murmurings and seeming affection. He is, and was always meant to be, an irredeemable villain. Why? He made a choice to follow Tom Riddle, for power and for the ability to hurt others without consequence. Voldemort cultivated the worst in him and he allowed it... for decades. It was a choice he made over and over and over again and, at this point, is there any chance he'd change?
> 
> Now I'll probably be posting more questions and indications of where the story is headed from here on Twitter and elsewhere. But yeah, we are headed toward an inevitable end one way or another.


	38. Reason

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione ruminates on the changing situation and Snape briefs her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started a FanFic Pinterest board because why not: https://www.pinterest.com/freyafallen/_saved/

It was a week when Antonin finally relented and allowed Hermione to go back to Hogwarts. Those seven days gouged a streak in her heart as she tried desperately to hold the pieces of her outside self together. He’d so utterly destroyed her facade that she was sure he could see the cracks like lines on porcelain. 

She wound herself taut to stay together, using a ribbon of pure endurance to coddle her chipped and broken pieces. 

He was a monster. She’d known he would snap on her, but had not anticipated the horror behind his handsome, soft-spoke mask. Yes, he became rough and cruel in bed, but he always healed her, and he hadn’t crossed certain lines. Not since that first time in his dungeons.

Hermione had wondered what the long-term repercussions of her actions would set on her, but he had returned to tender care the morning after. He tended to her wounds, stroked and kissed her as though nothing had occurred. 

But there  _ were _ changes. One was glaringly obvious: no more forks. No, Hermione had only spoons with which to eat, and food more frequently featured yogurts and oats, and soups. All of her food was bite-sized otherwise, easy to pluck from the plate with her fingers. Antonin took great pleasure in feeding her from his own fork if she struggled. 

It was humiliating, though at least there was only him to see her shame. When he saw her dejected expression upon her realization, he’d chuckled.

“I considered giving you nothing but bowls of soft food to lap up with your tongue. Be glad I settled on this instead.”

She’d pursed her lips and schooled herself. “Thank you, Antonin.”

But now… How she’d been certain he would never let her leave that wretched house again, and now she was back to dusting off beloved volumes in Hogwarts’ library. He was on the other side of the stacks but had a clear view of her as those between them had dominoed to the floor during battle. 

It was the most free she’d felt in months, though she had been in this same place a week past. But it felt like freedom after the terror of Dolohov’s fury. And it was the first time Hermione had had to process the information she’d gleaned.

_ Neville escaped. _ It was breathlessly euphoric news that threatened to topple her over. That was why she had to distract Dolohov. He’d been instrumental in organizing the small resistance at Hogwarts; any students who had escaped the worst would look to him for leadership.

It rankled a tiny sliver of her, the sliver that reminded her  _ she _ was Harry Potter’s best friend.  _ She _ had researched and been on the run successfully for a full year before the battle. Was she not worthy of escape to join the fight in truth?

Logically, she knew Neville was important. Hermione was well aware of how others viewed her, thank you very much. Unlike Harry, she wasn’t a leader. People didn’t follow her. They hardly listened to her despite her supposed bossiness. Okay, she was a bit bossy with her boys, but it was the only way the two of them had passed classes  _ and  _ handled every twist upon their path. They had learned that she wasn’t trying to harass them; she was just trying to make sure they were alright.

She’d heard Ron murmur to Harry once that they wouldn’t last a minute without her. It was before they started their hunt for the Horcruxes. And he’d been proven right the moment Death Eaters struck the Burrow. Hermione was ready.

She was ready for the endless apparation, ready with layers of wards. Ready for arguments with Ron, dealing with Harry’s broodiness. 

She  _ hadn’t _ been ready for Ron to explode and leave on them. He’d stayed through so much, and she was growing more certain by the day that he  _ liked _ her. But he left. There was a hole in her heart and an aching chasm between her and Harry, especially after…

Of course Ron had returned. He would  _ always _ return, no matter how brutal their arguments. Harry was dependable in that he was there come Hell or high water. Ron might leave when the wading began, but he would come back to keep you from drowning and to fight in Hell beside you.

That was how it had always been with them. 

_ But not anymore. _ A sob tied her chest in winding arms, unable to heave out of her throat, catching all her breath. They were gone and she was left behind with no one to guide her through the darkness, no one to stand by her side, no one to show them she loved them.

“Miss Granger.” 

The air her silent sob had held captive released in a startled gasp. “Professor. I’m sorry; I didn’t see you there.”

“Indeed,” he replied archly, one black brow rising as he studied her. “No matter. I’ve told Dolohov I am discussing the library with you. I’ve also cast a  _ muffliato _ . From his distance, we should be safe to have a short discussion.“

She nodded, her own brows furrowing. “So last week was for Neville?”

“Yes. It went well, and Longbottom is now in his proper place.”

“And me? When will I be going?” Her whiskey brown eyes were hopeful, bright amid the red of brokenness. 

But she knew from the tightening of his features that she was stuck. “We cannot risk an escape so soon. And… your presence with Dolohov is unfortunately necessary.”

Her heart sank like a stone. “Why?”

He looked almost regretful. “Dolohov is not interested in the outside world. He takes on specific tasks as ordered, but he is one of the Dark Lord's original Knights, and thus has great favorability. He allows others to volunteer, others to chase their ambitions. All he desires, Miss Granger, is to spend his days in peace. With you.” 

Orange firelight and a dark smile as Antonin gestured around him.  _ This _ , he’d said. This was what he wanted. 

“I know,” she croaked. 

“What do you imagine would happen if you escaped?” She hadn’t thought of that beyond herself and some vague hope she’d be joining something like the Order of the Phoenix to fight. But Dolohov, how would he react? And as her expression transformed to horror, he nodded. “He would cut through every tree in the Forbidden Forest, stack corpses like so much wood, do  _ anything  _ to regain you. Do you understand? Where now he is a resting beast, he would rise as a demon to collect you once more. And we cannot afford that currently.”

Body thrilling at every little pain still healing, she nodded once more. Those wounds would be as nothing against his wrath.

“He has to die,” she said after a silence had settled between them.

“Eventually. But we cannot be seen to be organized as of yet. We need more time.” Hermione shut her eyes at that and leaned against the wall, pressing a book to her chest. “I know what I ask of you is cruel. I am not as heartless as I seem. But this is how it must be.”

Hermione anchored herself in his words, drawing in a breath and releasing her despair with it. She stared up at the man, double agent who had apparently loved Harry’s mum, tool of Albus Dumbledore, and recognized the deep burden he carried on his shoulders. He was, what, thirty-eight? But his eyes hung as obsidian in bruised sockets.  _ Yes,  _ she supposed,  _ he would have an idea what he asks of me.  _ “I understand.”

“I-- trust-- you can manage the library, but feel free to design instructions should he quiz you. I will let you know if we need you again. And.” Snape hesitated, grinding his jaw before releasing a sigh. “I will do what I can to ease your situation.”

Her fingers scanned the edges of the book. “Thank you.”

“Don’t.” He turned away before she could read his expression. “I’m simply fulfilling my duties.”

Her eyes swept the library as he walked away, pulleys of her mind shifting the different sections into place, rebuilding the library as a mirage over reality. Antonin caught her gaze and tipped his head in that eagle-like manner of his, and she nodded and gave him a soft smile she hoped he’d mistake for enjoyment of her task. 

She would enjoy her work in the library, yes. But more than that, she knew the reason for her despair and now could try to build what she might within it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm enjoying everyone's speculations and reactions. Yes, even those who didn't enjoy the torture scene. Thanks for sticking it out. I'm gonna try to get around to answering questions, but I've been focused on writing more than anything. 
> 
> I'm veering toward a sequel, but it may or may not be antmione or have bits of it within. It may also skim into a different pairing. Lemme know your thoughts!
> 
> BTW I have a twist coming up toward the end that I have known since the beginning, but some of you may find shocking. It was planned, but it might hurt.


	39. Enemies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione gets insight into her enemies.

“Well, well… the mudblood is managing to make headway without the use of magic. I would be impressed if the chit weren’t so obnoxious.” 

Hermione’s spine straightened until she was a rigid wooden puppet on strings of irritation. There was something about the man’s barbs that pierced the armor of her self-esteem and tore into her insecurities. His son had it, though on a lesser level. 

“Malfoy, was there something you needed?”

She could feel the pale man’s attention shifting from her to her captor and the tenseness in her ligaments eased enough for her to set the next book on its shelf. She had nearly forgotten about how easy her task would be with magic; though the loss of her wand had cut deeply at first, the memory of a removed limb, now it was more fleeting and phantom in nature. She knew well enough how to function the muggle way, though she was not a muggle herself. Of course, Lucius Malfoy  _ would _ enjoy rubbing her nose in her loss.

“Severus wants to discuss something with you, and it is apparently imperative your little mudblood is watched lest she escape your clutches.” The imperious man no doubt rolled his eyes at the thought; there was no way for her to apparate, no way to Floo. Her only route would be on foot, and every entrance to the castle was guarded, the halls patrolled.

Still, Antonin did not take risks with her. “Hermione will accompany me.”

“Really, Dolohov, I can manage one mudblood school girl on my own. Or do you not trust me?” The Malfoy patriarch sneered the last word. “I’m neither Greyback nor Lestrange to forget myself and molest one such as her.”

Dolohov drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. “Perhaps I fear you would take it upon yourself to harm her? She is  _ mine _ and I will not tolerate anyone else punishing her.”

“Should your mudblood misbehave I swear on my magic I will not curse her, but leave her punishment up to you. Satisfied?” 

A short silence stretched between them and Hermione slowly revolved to see them. Antonin’s eyes were narrowed to silver glints, but at last he nodded. “Hermione, behave.”

“Of course, Antonin.” 

He left them in a sweep of dark robes and heavy boots, the fair wizard staring down the small witch. 

The way his cool eyes burned into hers, one brow raised in silent challenge, it reeled through her memories and sent her toward the past. Twelve years old in Diagon Alley, the first time they’d met, when he looked down his nose at her parents for being muggles Third year, fourteen years old and she was trying to help Hagrid defeat him to save Buckbeak. The summer before fourth year, at the Quidditch World Cup. He had been part of the Death Eater festivities, and the things his son had applied… it had haunted her for some time. Fifth year at the Ministry. Months and months ago at his manor, tortured on his floor.

For a middle-aged man and a teenage girl, there was quite a bit of history between them even excluding that she’d been his son’s classmate. Those experiences weighed upon her now, straining the air between them.

“Have you thought on what I said?”

Hermione blinked, pulling herself from remembrances and into the present. “What?” His brow twitched again as she scrolled through to their last encounter. “Was it supposed to be a threat? You implied you’re not afraid of Antonin.”

_ “Antonin,” _ he scorned. “”Right-trained little mudblood, aren’t you?” His eyes, so like the other man’s in color, so dissimilar in mood, narrowed. “I meant after that, girl. On allies, on what you’re willing to do for power.”

The conversation had been so fraught with cruelty that she had given little thought to those themes. Her face twisted in thought.

“Your protection is only as strong as your master, and your power is what little he grants you.”

Hermione nibbled her bottom lip. “And you think I could get power and protections otherwise? That there are other possible allies?” 

He was still a moment, then oddly neutral as he said, “There are always possibilities to improve one’s position, Miss Granger. It comes down to what one is willing to do.”

“How would you go about it in my position?”

“Curry favor with others, of course. Find their motivations and allegiances.” Long fingers tapped against the head of his cane. “For instance, other than the Dark Lord, my loyalties lie with the Malfoy family. Not only my wife and son, but my lineage and its continuance.”

What he truly meant was that that was his  _ only _ allegiance, as Hermione knew full-well the Malfoys supported Voldemort for survival alone. He had abused them, and if they had other options… Her eyes widened. 

“If I were able to assist your family in some way, that would be advantageous in forming allyship with you, then?” He nodded. “And the Dark Lord, if I could assist him with his rise to power, he would… What?”

Lucius Malfoy sauntered closer, until only a waist-high bookshelf was between them. When he spoke, his voice was low, as though imparting a delicious secret. “That is where you have a head start. The Dark Lord favors power above all, even blood status. You, Miss Granger, are a surprisingly capable mudblood. He is aware of some of your accomplishments and it is enough that he is willing to overlook your parentage should one of his knights breed with you. That child would be accepted into the world, welcomed as any Pureblood scion. If you could show him your worth is beyond your current situation, you would have standing on your own.”

Standing of her own among Voldemort’s ranks; the idea was as ridiculous as it was alluring. She’d be an additional in for the resistance, and perhaps she could escape Dolohov that way and still act as a distraction. However, she could not help the creeping vines of suspicion. 

“Why are you telling me this?”

“I should think it’s obvious.” His lips quirked in a shadow of a smirk. “Despite his reticence to involve himself in Death Eater politics, Dolohov still holds power. The more he holds, the less I do. If bringing you in fractures his power, all the better for me.” The smirk deepened. “And if you can somehow benefit by family… Politics, my dear, are complex and as indiscriminate as they are discriminate.”

Her mind whirled with the information, streaming toward what she knew of the Death Eaters, of the Malfoys, of politics. “I will think on that, Mister Malfoy. Thank you.” Those were words she never though she’d say. “If there is anything I can do for your family--”

“Ah.” He forestalled her with one raised hand. “Be careful what you offer, Miss Granger. Carte Blanche can be dangerous when speaking with a Slytherin.”

“Would it not be a show of good faith to at least ask?”

His eyes danced over her, taking in the few healing marks still marring her flesh. “Ever the Gryffindor. Think carefully on what you’re willing to offer, where your limits are, before you consider such questions. Word them carefully, as those with whom you are dealing will surely do the same.” Malfoy’s mercurial eyes studied her carefully until he was sure she’d understood. “Now, you should focus on the task at hand rather than interrogate me.”

It was a dismissal and she ground her jaw at it, but nodded and turned back to the books she was cataloging. They were basic Defense volumes, wonderful for essays and brushing up on the foundations. Hermione had spent much of fifth year skimming through them to counteract the paltry teachings of Umbridge. These books had served her well, and she was glad most of them had survived. They would surely be needed in the coming times.

“I’ve returned; you may leave now, Malfoy.” Dolohov spoke as he passed the threshold into the library with clipped steps.

Malfoy sneered, but did not address the words themselves. “Did you accept?”

“What does it matter to you?” The dark man scowled as he strode between the pair to wrap an arm around Hermione’s waist. 

“I am teaching the Dark Arts, so it is pertinent to my position.”

Hermione’s head snapped whiplash swift toward the man. Lucius Malfoy, teaching? Why in Godric’s name would he accept a teaching position? 

_ Professor Malfoy.  _ She shuddered to think of it; he would put Snape’s methods to shame. The students would not know the horror that awaited them behind his marble angel façade. He apparently noticed her reaction, the smirk returning to grace his lips. 

“No matter, Severus will inform me since you’re being difficult. Miss Granger,” he nodded to her, taking his leave.

Antonin pulled her to face him, tipping her chin up. “Did he do anything?”

She bit her bottom lip and gave a shake of her head, stirring up murky thoughts to cover the true conversation. “He talked down to me a bit, called me a mudblood a few times, then chastised me for neglecting my task. That’s all.”

Whatever he saw in her eyes satisfied him. “Good.” Dolohov brushed a kiss across her lips and took his seat. “Then you may return to your work.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so the twist is not something happening or that has happened to Hermione (ie, pregnancy); it is news she receives. 
> 
> I am 99 percent sure this is getting a sequel and as to the direction of it. It'll disappoint some, thrill others, and I'm sure everything in between. But hey, it's forming in my head and I kind of like how it's developing.


	40. Allies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione considers her options and approaches Dolohov.

Hermione thought about the information she had while soaking in the bath. That was the one time she could decompress, lower her walls, reorganize; she’d told Antonin rather early on that she valued those moments and would he please allow her them, and he had graciously agreed.

Snape and Neville were leaders in the rebellion, resistance, remaining order, whatever they were calling themselves. Lucius Malfoy was supposedly a good friend to Snape; was it possible he was also subversive? 

_ No. _ She pursed lips and tossed the fragrant soap from one hand to another as bubbles of thought popped at the surface.  _ No, he is truly self-serving; he’ll do what he must to preserve his family and his own status. _ Which again begged the question of what he could possibly desire from the mudblood Hermione Granger in exchange for his assistance in gaining status of her own.

_ Perhaps I’ll talk to Professor Snape about it the next time he deigns to give me information or orders.  _

That Voldemort, heir of Slytherin, Dark Lord and murderer of muggles, would find her worthy of attention outside taking petty pleasure in the subjugation of an enemy was laughable. She was everything he stood against: muggleborn, interested in the betterment of others, muggleborn, Gryffindor, and a girl. Bellatrix Lestrange was more rabid pet than Death Eater, and his followers otherwise were overwhelmingly male. 

_ Horrid man. _ He may have fancied himself above mere mortals, with his Horcruxes and whatever other protections he had to stave off death, but those only made him harder to kill. 

Those bloody Horcruxes. They were all destroyed now, weren’t they? He’d be seeking new means of immortality, since surely even he would not risk creating another one. After  _ one  _ Horcrux, Herpo the Foul had reported remarkable changes, chief among them decreasing inhibitions. There was also lower body temperature, increased aggression, and a growing need to find something missing. Herpo the Foul didn’t know what  _ it _ was, but Hermione suspected the obvious: the missing half of his soul. How much worse was Voldemort? 

_ Incredibly so.  _ She snorted. Voldemort was a temperamental megalomaniac; from what Hermione had gathered, Tom Riddle had shown restraint, had everyone convinced he was practically a saint. What had changed, other than the Horcruxes? If he was as gifted as people said wouldn’t it have been simpler to conquer through charm?

And then there was Draco Malfoy, who apparently had harbored a crush on her? That sounded suspect. He was softer than his father, and more obvious in his discomfort with the Dark Lord’s rule. While he’d dabbled in cruelty, he was neither hardened to it nor naturally inclined. He was the weak point; Hermione could milk information from him even if he wasn’t able to be turned.

Hermione swam through her knowledge of Draco as she emptied the tub and dried herself. She would have to approach any interaction carefully; Dolohov was a jealous man and quick to anger when it came to her. She donned pajamas and her dressing coat, slipped into her slippers, and stepped lightly toward the drawing room for Antonin’s after-dinner aperitif.

“Feeling better, love?” 

She presented herself for a kiss before settling into the seat beside his. “Much, thank you.” Brandy and whiskey were both becoming commonplace to her palate with how often Hermione partook with Antonin. 

His eyes roved her appreciatively, eyeing the purple swathe that was like butterflies along one calf. It was late and she was tender from the previous evening; she was safe for the night.

They drank to the tune of the whisping, crackling fire and Hermione favored him with hesitant glances until he lifted a brow. She colored and swallowed thickly. “I was wondering if you’d decided whether to take the position at Hogwarts.”

Dolohov considered her as the orange light flared and dimmed, creating velvety shadows of thought across his features. “You want to stay on at the library.” At her chagrined shrug, he chuckled. “It is not a full-time position, my love. Once, perhaps twice a week.”

“I know.” Hermione chewed her lip. “It would still be a great help to Professor Snape, and perhaps I could assist whoever takes the position full time.”

Fingertips drummed a rain-like beat on his tumbler. “And who would watch you when I am engaged? Someone I could trust with both your safety and your virtue.”

She knew an answer that may work, but presentation would be delicate. “The younger Death Eaters won’t touch me; they know better.”

“And who among them carries enough weight to keep others from you?”

“I don’t know exactly.” Hermione rubbed her palms over thighs and noted how his attention followed them. “There must be someone with enough favor, or whose family is respected enough--”

“Tell me the name, Hermione. I know you have an idea.”

It was unnerving when he cut through her that way, as though he saw into the shallows of her mind. “Draco Malfoy.”

Antonin sneered. “The little coward who has a crush on you?”

“He is Bellatrix’s nephew and his father holds financial sway, and he’s terrified of you because he knows those don’t matter for you.”

“And he would lower himself to do this?”

Hermione gazed pleadingly at him. “If you asked, of course. And it would mean so much to allow me this, Antonin. Please.”

His eyes narrowed. “You think I would enjoy showing brats how to duel? That I would endure it for you?”

“Well,” she hazarded, “you’d probably get to hex them.”

That sent his laughter spiraling through the room.

Draco Malfoy watched her while Antonin spoke to Snape. He kept his distance the first few moments, but sauntered closer as he plucked through books and shelves she’d already organized until he was in the same space his father had occupied days before. 

“What’s this all about, Granger?”

She brushed back an errant curl and looked at his askew. “All what about?”

“This. Me, here.” He raised a pale brow expectantly. “Why am I the one playing babysitter to the brightest witch of our year?”

How odd that his brows were the sale silver as his hair while his father’s were darker.  _ What color are Narcissa’s?  _ she wondered, before remembering the woman was always perfectly made up by the time Hermione saw her in the mornings, thus her eyebrows could be shaped and filled and darkened that way. No matter; the pureblood families were all rife with recessive genes. 

Hermione shelved the book in hand and turned her attention to his more fully. “Do you have better things to do with your time?”

“I am a Death Eater, Granger. Shouldn’t I be, I don’t know, killing babies?”

That forced a shocked bark of laughter from her. “And here I thought you brooded around Malfoy Manor all day.” Then frowned. “Does this bother you?”

The impeccably cut blazer moved with his shoulders. “It’s not bad; beats the fuck out of other duties.”

“Isn’t that reason enough?” At his continued stare Hermione sighed. “I can’t stay under his thumb constantly, Malfoy. You don’t know what it’s like. He’s always touching me, kissing me, petting me. He drags me to his bed at every opportunity and leaves his mark upon my body like badges of pride. I need time away from him, time where I’m not-- where-- where I’m still Hermione Granger.”

He watched her with increasing sympathy weighing on his features as she spoke, “I’m sorry,” he said at last, and she believed him. “If this is what you need, I’ll do it. I’ll do what I can.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took me a minute. I'm trying to catch up with my writing, but the holidays and some chronic illness are slowing me down. Still, I have an interlude coming up that I think will excite many, soooooo. Yay. Anyway, I hope everyone is having a safe and happy holiday season.


	41. Second Interlude

“You’re not-- you’re not serious about this, are you, Snape?” This was his first full meeting, having recovered from the condition in which the Lestranges left him as well as his ensuing escape. The sallow man’s expression was still as the Black Lake in winter. “That’s Hermione; surely we can get her out? We  _ should _ get her out.”

“Nev--” 

He shrugged off the placating arm. “No.  _ No.  _ Absolutely not. You’re all alright with this? Leaving her there to get raped and tortured and--” Flinching, tears, curses waving away from him.

“Dolohov seems to, well, he’s taking care of her, isn’t he? Surely he’s not all that bad.”

The Gryffindor nearly gagged as he studied each member in turn; some were ashamed and could not meet his gaze, others clearly holding their tongues with clenched jaws, there were the saddened and the defeated, and he saw reflected in them several conversations he’d missed on this same topic. 

“Taking care of her.” He gave a hollow laugh, fists uncurling helplessly. “Have you been telling them how he  _ takes care _ of her, Snape?”

He thought he spied the shape of sorrow in the man’s black eyes, but it was gone in a flicker. “Miss Granger understands the importance of her current situation.”

“She knows you’re whoring her out?” Neville scoffed. His grandmother scowled at him and opened her darkly painted lips to give him a stern lecture, but the roar of his chair skittering backward silenced her. “None of you knows, not really. Only him.” He nodded at the professor. “And me. None of you knows what it is like to be at their mercy. And I was lucky in some ways. The Lestrange brothers don’t like blokes and Bellatrix is fucking You-Know-Who. But Hermione? Dolohov is obsessed with her. And he’s sadistic enough Rodolphus respects him. He tortured her for hours because she pushed Rodolphus Lestrange’s hand away. And you all want to leave her there because it’s tactical? Fuck that.” He glared at them in turn, a sneer to rival the bat of the dungeons contorting his features.

“Neville, mate.” His friend spoke softly, voice sorrowful as glass shards. “If he doesn’t have her, then he’ll be  _ hunting  _ her. Hunting  _ us.” _

Neville collapsed back into his seat, deflated by the obviousness of the statement. He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to stave off the ache of helplessness. After a silence narrowed to a point on him, he sighed and looked up, meeting Snape’s eyes with deadly focus in his usually kind eyes. “We have to kill him.”

The professor nodded in acquiescence. “In time.”

“No, as soon as possible. This should be a priority.”

Arthur Weasley brushed a hand through hair dulled by war, loss, and age. “Neville, I know this is important. I know Hermione is hurting every day we leave her there. I love that girl like one of my own.” His voice choked as he glanced around at the remnants of his family. “But we can’t afford to do anything recklessly. We can’t-- can’t afford to lose anyone else.” Charlie Weasley clapped a hand over his father’s shoulder as the man suppressed tears. Their family had been torn asunder, dead or in custody of the enemy, so few them left to huddle together. Without his wife the Weasley patriarch was hardly able to hold himself together. 

Their numbers were decimated; Neville knew that, and knee they had to be delicate in their operations. It was just unbearable to imagine people he cared about locked away and tormented. And Hermione had it among the worst as she was one of the few muggleborn survivors of the battle. 

Looking at the remaining members of the DA, especially those who had been at Hogwarts the last year, he knew why they’d freed him; he was their de facto leader, not that he wanted the position. But he was no Harry Potter, no member of the Golden Trio, no mastermind. Guilt weighed heavily on his shoulders that  _ he _ was freed while so many others languished under Death Eater control. There was nothing for it though; he just had to push forward.

“What’s next then?”

Snape allowed the resistance members a moment to collect themselves before launching into business. “We have a chance now to sow dissent among the Death Eaters, possibly turn some to our cause. However, it will require certain concessions on our part.” Here he looked to the commanding presence of Kingsley Shacklebolt who gestured for him to continue. “Of course, leniency is foremost among them…”

Neville zoned out of most of the conversation then; the gist was enough for him, and he could always beg details from someone else. His thoughts floated back to black dungeons and dark rumors whispered in his ears…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Catching back up on my writing so I'll be able to post again in a day or two; gonna keep up the every day to every three days at most pace at this rate.
> 
> Anyway, thank you all for the well-wishes. I appreciate it. And I hope you are all having a lovely Holiday season. It's a bit subdued here in California, but my husband and I are making the most of it curled up tight with seven cats (foster little of five) and a fluffy dog.
> 
> Also, how about that Neville? He's a bit testy at the moment, but can you blame the kid?


	42. Forest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione and Antonin take a walk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas! Happy Holidays! Have a chapter.

The insidious scent of pine and freshly turned leaves and sunlight through the trees imprinted on her bare flesh where Antonin’s hands and mouth painted her with his possession. Currently his lips were on Hermione’s throat and she was immersed in the spill of his short, dark curls. 

“Why do you smell like that?” The thought streamed out with her breath, her whole body loose and languid as though on a pool float. He pulled away and his hair tickled her nose. 

His grey eyes were still swallowed up by the New Moon of his irises as he frowned down at her. “Is it offensive, my love? I will endeavor to correct it if so.”

“Not at all. You just… smell like the forest. Sometimes the forest and fire, and firewhiskey even.  But always the forest.” She played at a dangling ringlet, absently twirling it around her fingers. It was odd, Hermione mused. Most of the people close to her in life didn’t have curls. Harry’s hair was a mess, but wavy at best. She got her curls from her father, and his were cut short. Was this why others loved playing with her curls? It was quite fascinating, and all curls seemed about as dissimilar as they were alike.

A fond smile played along his lips as Antonin studied her. “Perhaps because we are surrounded by forest.” At the parting of her lips, he chuckled and cupped her cheek. “I have lived around forests my entire life, and always enjoyed my forays beneath the trees.” Thoughtfulness tugged at his brows. “Would you like to take a walk with me?”

“In the forest?” Her voice rose in a hopeful chime. “Yes, please! I would love that.”

Antonin’s mile unfurled completely as he lowered his lips to take her own, tongue sweeping through the cavern of her mouth. His hands slipped the buttons at her front, diving into the tempting flesh of her breasts to knead and grasp. He was eager to taste her gratitude, settling a brutal rhythm over her.

“Sweet Hermione,” he groaned, pulling her legs over his shoulder to pound into her, tight grip bruising the soft skin of her hips, nails digging in to the point of blood. “You take me so well, kitten.”

Bent double, hair clinging to her from sweat, Hermione couldn’t help but think the price worthwhile; she was going to go outside.

Antonin tugged a light cloak across her shoulders, securing it with a shining enamel pin fashioned in the shape of a rose. He’d provided Hermione with sturdy boots that morning and her heart had raced into a hum as she laced them over her ankles.

“Are you ready?” He brushed back her hair and she nodded. “Very good.” He held out his arm to her and led toward the front door; it swung open to reveal gilded emerald light streaming and they passed into it, Hermione’s breath shallow as a koi pond and thoughts excitedly darting like the fish therein.

The sky was open, more open than she had even noticed before. It climbed overhead with grey and white clouds piled atop each other and stopped only where the trees began. And the trees passed into the distance until they disappeared into velvety shadow. 

It was beautiful and terrifying and Hermione was small in the face of nature's vastness. 

Antonin squeezed her hand, grounding her back into her body and she favored him with a wan smile. They began their walk, his weight beside her tethering her perspective so she didn’t have an anxiety attack.

How odd. Hermione had never felt this way before. She knew what the sensation was though; it had an individual name. Agoraphobia. Fear of places where one may be unable to escape, including open spaces, crowds, even bridges. Hermione had never particularly suffered from it, but now she thought she might.

_ Deep breaths, Hermione. Use reason. You are no more in danger here than you are in the manor, familiar though it may be. Breathe.  _ She was supposed to enjoy this, so she set about immersing her study in the details of the experience.

The air was crisp with the cool lick of the wind, finely woven through with the bitter tang of growing things, and laced with a reminder that snow would follow on the heels of golden leaves. It was nearly September, and she was wistful over the buried grief of loss. 

Brown earth shown between patches of detritus, which crinkled drily underfoot. It was satisfying, the crunch beneath the firm tread of her boots. 

“This way, love. This is a good route.” It was worn through the forest by decades or more of feet leading through it as Antonin led her now. 

He was stroking the back of her hand with his right hand fingers, gently running over the little bones there. It was in moments like this that Hermione could easily forget the beast that wore men’s clothing, how it bubbled out in the darkest moments to invade her, to twist her, to mould her to itself. He was every inch the gentleman, attentive and kind, full of soft smiles for her. He wanted to hear what she was reading, would discuss it in depth. His touches in the light of day were brushes of the cheek or a hand on her thigh. And he was handsome.

She could almost hear the sighs of her previous classmates, how they’d swoon over his ruggedly handsome features and his noble mannerisms. Hermione was lucky, she was sure they’d say. What girl wouldn’t want his attention?

And beneath her dress were the signs of his attentive nature, no length of skin bare mark of his ownership. When the visage of a man was shucked, he worshipped her with all the cruel intent of a pious inquisitor.

His gentle touch guided her through the thickening trees until his manor disappeared entirely, but still the little footpath went on. “Here, just up ahead.” 

Hermione glanced askance at him with her eyebrows pinched, but his chin thrust forward to indicate the looming shadows ahead. There appeared to be a clearing, though solid grey obelisks and slabs of stone sent long velvet black patches across the barren earth. It took a moment for the shapes to click in her head.

A graveyard. 

“The first grave here is my grandmother. She was the first to pass after my father’s family emigrated to England.” His gesture swept to the grandiose testament over that one and the one beside her, almost a marker to the entrance. “And my grandmother, of course. An aunt who died too young to be married, poor thing.” Dolohov’s fingers skimmed solemn stone as they passed each marker. “My father and mother. We will be buried beside her.” 

Shivers passed through Hermione at his words, but her skin froze completely as she took in little slabs laid in the earth. There was a name and a single date on each.

“Ah, yes. My would-be siblings. As I said, my mother miscarried multiple times. There were stillbirths and infants who did not survive more than a scant few hours. Hardly, at that. My father took a single glance at them and knew they would pass. My mother, soft soul, insisted on magical baptism and naming for each, as well as a full burial.” Concern ghosted over his rigid features, the whisper of memories where a young boy held a weeping woman’s hand as a shrivelled bundle was lowered into the hard ground. “My father refused to attend after the third. He didn’t come out here until it was time to lay down my mother.”

Antonin was stroking his mother’s headstone.  _ Annika Borisovna Dolohova.  _ She’d died at thirty-six, so young for so many little graves weighing the ground surrounding. Hermione had a flash of imagination through her stream of thought; a sad woman with dark curls and grey eyes staring out a window of the manor, a black veil shielding her delicate features.

“I didn’t imagine there would be so many.” It was hushed over the hallowed grounds, not daring to disturb the slumber of those interred. 

A hand cupped her cheek. “Wizarding pregnancies are difficult, and young children fragile. My father wished for multiple heirs to carry on his legacy should anything befall me.” His lips brushed her curls. “I have no desire to keep my witch in such a way as my mother was-- always pregnant, always hidden, always grieving. After three attempts, perhaps four, whether fruitful or not, we will be finished.”

There was that word,  _ we _ , ringing in her ears. The rhyming  _ three  _ thrummed along in counterpart.”

“Did your parents struggle to conceive,  _ katyonok _ ? Those things can run in family lines.” Her stomach wound into a tight ball of steely wire even as she gave a terse shake to the negative. “Yet you are an only child. Why?”

She shrugged, voice flat with the effort to ignore her churning gut. “It’s different for muggles. There are sciences to help conception, and young children rarely pass. My parents had me when their practice was already established, so they were not as young as many others and decided not to risk pregnancy, as age can add complications.”

“When do muggles stop having children? Surely your parents were not so old?

“Well, most women go through menopause around their fifties, I believe, but most women are through having children by then, I imagine. Mid-thirties is considered older for first-time mothers. My mum always said that was ridiculous.” 

“Truly?” Dolohov’s brows had climbed his forehead in incredulity. “Wizarding women have children well into their fifties, and wizards much older than that.” He pondered, tapping forefinger to lips. “I would rather not become a father much later in life than I am now.” Antonin wrapped an arm around her and whirled toward the path. “Come, kitten. I don’t wish to tire you with this outing, and we still have the rest of the day.”

Hermione nodded and allowed him to lead her back through the autumnal world and into the safety of his home.


	43. September

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> September comes and Hermione spends it at Hogwarts, hidden away in the library.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's Christmas and many of us are spending it a bit differently... I am only a chapter ahead now, but I can work on that. Enjoy.

It was the first and Hermione was overseeing the last of her work on the library before the students arrived. Her heart was boxed in tightly as she ignored the rising anticipation associated with this place and this day, but it was an ever-present phantom breathing on the back of her neck.

Antonin was in and out of meetings; he was expected for the feast as well. Hermione suspected she would remain here until fetched for the evening, only the reluctant Draco Malfoy for company.

“It looks fine, Granger.” He glanced at her from behind the thick volume in hand. 

She worried at her lip and considered the books still to be sorted; there were only two and a half trolleys full, but she had wanted to get them finished. As it was, she wanted to further differentiate subsections, but had prioritized separation into the main genre. As Snape had so readily reminded her a week past, the finer details could come with time. Which Hermione had so long as Dolohov remained amenable to the current arrangement.

The reduced Restricted Section was most troubling. The Dark Lord insisted only the most advanced volumes, those that could create calamity, were set aside. However, seventh years were exempt. As though seventeen-year-old budding Death Eaters would resist creating havoc. Alas, there was little she could do except stretch the limits to include as many dangerous texts as she could.

It wasn’t that Hermione believed in ridding the world of Dark literature; she only wanted to ensure it wasn’t in the hands of children. And this collection… The castle had been raided for every hidden tome and others had been procured to better stock subjects on the Dark Arts. There were volumes Draco had to handle for her lest they set off a curse to poison her dirty blood. 

She longed to read even those, her mind whirling with ideas on how to dismantle their wards and traps, how she could read them without any of that mess triggering. Had she her wand perhaps Hermione could levitate them and flick through the pages magically. Or had they set them so that even her dirty, stolen magic would set off curses? Hermione would not put that past any of the bigots, though she wondered how such a feat could be accomplished. 

Perhaps she ought to set aside the cursed tomes, lest any be set off by a student. She could label them with a warning. It wasn’t difficult to suss out cursed books; there was a certain aura that lingered on the bindings, and often those bound with what she suspected was human skin were among their number. What horrid secrets whispered through those wrinkled pages, between those leathery covers? It was certainly not magic she would perform, but it was knowledge nonetheless. And Hermione thirsted.

There was too much to be done for her to immerse herself in written word, pseudo-librarian though she may be. Organization was the heart of a good library. Students could find what they sought rather than get lost in the stacks (unless that was their intention, which was entirely possible in even the tidiest of repositories).

When not physically present, Hermione worked through her lists of books and updated the card catalogue, which was sorely in need of care after the mayhem of the summer. Madam Pince, for whom library sciences were a sacred duty, had kept immaculate records, but there was much to amend. As she carded through the crisp cards, her fingers allowed her a glimpse of the titles. Most remained in their places, but occasionally there was one that no longer belonged.

Those neat little cards sent a twitch through her heart as she pulled them. They were the lost, the disappeared, the destroyed, the sacrificed, and they made a neat little pile on the arm of her chair. And when she finished her perusal they were tucked into her side table drawer.

They weren’t subversive books,  _ per se, _ though some of them were decidedly against the Dark. Works by both Nicolas Flamel and Albus Dumbledore had vanished; where the lost books went, Hermione did not know. Perhaps Voldemort reduced them to ash, or spirited them somewhere only he could read them, cackling over the supposed inanity of Light wizards.

Though Tom Riddle had been a studious young man much like herself, though with that touch of genius that often accompanied madness. Yes, she’d felt the hot prick of jealousy more times than she cared to admit; at one point it had seeped into her bones and her research had been more to see what she needed to rise over his academic record than helping Harry bring him down. He had attained full Outstandings in nearly every class Hogwarts had offered at the time. Apparently without the use of Time Turner.

Hermione’s ten Outstanding O.W.L.s and that one besmirching E were inadequate, and now she would never have the opportunity to measure her N.E.W.T.s against his. 

_ Now that would be a bold request.  _ A grin tugged at the corner of her mouth and she nearly laughed aloud.

“What has you so amused?” Hermione spun around and nearly flattened against Draco’s chest. 

“Oh!” She steadied herself on a shelf, fingers carefully away from the book she’d placed so lovingly. “It’s just… well. You know the instructors always harped on about my abilities?” The pale youth rolled his eyes. “Well, I snuck around and found the-- the Dark Lord’s records and I realized I am disappointed I cannot take the N.E.W.T.s and compare our scores.”

Irritation gave way to puzzlement. “That is barmy, you realize that, don’t you?”

“Well.” Hermione evened out her voice to remove the sting. “His records were the only true challenger I had at school. I  _ wanted  _ goals to achieve, markers to surpass. Getting Outstandings is all well and good, but what’s next?” Hermione wiped sweaty palms on her skirt, fiddling over the pleats. “What made me smile was, well, it’s ridiculous, I know, and it was only a passing thought, but…”

“Out with it, Granger.”

“I wondered about asking the Dark Lord if I could sit my N.E.W.T.s”

It was a slow transformation that occurred before her, Draco Malfoy’s condescending expression morphing to the confusion of parted lips and eyes empty of understanding. Then those silver eyes grew larger than Sickles, eyebrows pinching and rising in a wave-like motion of shock as his lip curled, face finally settling into bewilderment. “What the bloody Hell… Woman, are you mad?”

Hermione smothered her laughter with hands shuddering along to the tune of her amusement. “I told you!” she giggled, amusement bubbling through her chest, out of her lips, through her fingers and into the aisle of books where they stood. “I told you it was a ridiculous passing though. I mean, can you imagine?” Her hands dropped as she put on an affectation of sweet inquiry. “‘Oh, Dark Lord, could I possibly sit my N.E.W.T.s? You see, I’m desperately endeavoring to beat your own scores which I just could not help myself to find. They are so incredible, my Lord, that they present the most beautiful challenge. And though I know that I, lowly mudblood though I am, could never hope to achieve such heights, the merest attempt would make my dirty heart soar, and I would be most indebted to you.”

By the end of her sugary monologue, Hermione’s hands pressed to her chest before opening in supplication to the imaginary Dark Lord.

Before Draco could make his response a sharp clapping echoed toward them.

“Bravo, Miss Granger. That was quite the show. Though I advise, should you ever make your plea to the Dark Lord, you do so from your proper place-- that is, prostrated before him-- and with a more even tone, as the Dark Lord is particular about accepting sycophantism.”

Hermione stared wide-eyed at Draco as her hands curled into fists against her body, shoulders caving in on herself. 

Her peer was unruffled, turning to greet the newcomer. “Father. Is the meeting over?”

“My part is,” the older man deflected. “I am sure Severus will keep the majority as long as he can lest they cause trouble as the little brats file in.” She could see him now, taller and wider of shoulder than his son; it seemed Draco had either yet to fill out completely or he had taken his mother’s slender build. 

“Good afternoon, Mister Malfoy,” she acknowledged politely. 

“Miss Granger.” He inclined his head, light shining in amusement. “Is that something you truly plan on doing?” He was stepping ever-closer, his cane a delicate clack on the floor. One hand clapped his son’s shoulder. 

Heat fanned through her front and she shrugged helplessly. “I hadn’t thought of it, really. It was more of a joke.”

His features placid as a lake he replied, “You should ask. Less theatrically, of course. Though admitting you admired his own academic prowess is not a bad idea.”

“Why?”

“Intelligent followers are too few. He values intelligence nearly as much as power. And though you crawled out from the mud, you are rather clever.” Lucius Malfoy’s fingers stroked along the silver cobra-head of his cane as though it were a living familiar. 

Their previous conversations flashed like lightning over her, branching into her reason. “Why are you telling me this? What do you get from it?” More precisely, how did Hermione know he wasn’t setting her up?

His pink tongue darted wetly over his top lip in thought. “You need power before you are a possible ally. And before you ask, Miss Granger, I told you that I wish more power for myself. You cannot compete with my status in the Dark Lord’s ranks, but you could perhaps assist me in lowering others. And I assume you wish some power to improve your circumstances.”

“You want me to help you bring down Dolohov.” There. Plainly said.

He canted his head, hair falling against his shoulder like a silver stream. “Is that something  _ you _ desire?” 

_ Ah. He won’t say it first, lest I’ve become attached.  _

“Yes.” The softly spoken word was a key, a promise, a truth that set her heart to pounding.

Pale pink lips curved into an arrogant smirk, silver eyes like needles into her own. “Alliances have been built on less, Miss Granger.”

“Then, so long as I can see how your advice will benefit this cause, I will be amenable to your suggestions toward that end.” And Hermione Granger, Gryffindor muggleborn, held out her hand.

“May we rise as our rivals fall.” And Lucius Malfoy, Pureblood Death Eater, engulfed her small hand in his own. A jolt of electric magic thrilled through her as they sealed their pact.


	44. Dangerous Musings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione and Dolohov talk about the future; smut ensues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY NEW YEAR. I hope you all have had lovely holidays. I took a break and gamed some, but I am back with a vengeance.

Fridays were Hogwarts Days unless Snape needed Antonin for a meeting or whatnot; apparently staff took turns on library duty until a librarian could be found, while Hermione sorted, catalogued, and fixed everything the one day she was allowed.

Their other days continued as they did before for the most part. They both had “work” to go over through the week, but it was rather light and the Death Eater often decided they would work side-by-side (or, rather, with Hermione on his lap. That’s where she was now.”

“How many subcategories for each section do you have, love?” His lips moved against the shell of her ear and sent fissions down her flesh. 

“It highly depends on the category. But I am just looking this over to reference the order of the subjects at the moment. The Restricted Section taked priority until it’s sorted.” Her words were distant but she was far more present than it let on.

“Mmm.” His warmth hummed through her. “Yes, that’s an excellent idea. And Dark Arts from there; focus on the areas the Dark Lord prefers. He’ll like that.”

“Will he?” Her mind flashed so reflections nearly blinded her. “Do you think he might be inclined to a small, miniscule, really, favor?”

Leaden hands closed around her slight waist to anchor each crevice of her body to his. “A favor, kitten? One must tread carefully with favors from the Dark Lord. What is this favor?”

She peered shyly over her shoulder at the striking man. “I’d like to sit my N.E.W.T.s.”

Thick brows shot up at that. “I know you are a studious, academically inclined girl, but what use would that be for anyone now?”

“It’s just-- I’ve looked forward to them for years, studying and prepping so I could achieve my full potential. Future employers will look to them for a first indication--”

“Employers?” Antonin’s features had returned to stone. “You have no need to work, Hermione. I will always provide whatever our family needs.”

Her stomach knotted and swirled. “But I like work.”

He stroked possessively at her body, fingers bruisingly deep. “You may read and write whatever you want, send in papers and dither in intellectual pursuits to your heart’s content as long as it doesn’t disrupt our life. Why would you care about examinations?”

None of his words did anything to placate the waves disturbing the careful damming of her mind, but Hermione had nearly perfected her mask of compliance. “As I said, I have been preparing for these tests for years; they are the culmination of my education; an education I did not get to complete.” Her eyes widened to warm chestnuts gleaming with sorrow. “It would, I don’t know, perhaps help me move forward?”

“Oh, my sweet, soft kitten.” Antonin kissed her hair and stroked her with all the tenderness of a dragon amidst his gold. He tipped her chin and planted another kiss on petal soft lips. “Perhaps we can speak to the Dark Lord about it, but it would be a magnanimous boon indeed. You will need to prove you are worthy of it.”

Hermione swallowed, watching as Antonin followed the movement of her throat. “I know.” 

“Do you?” He considered her. “You are already granted so much, my sweet girl. From the Dark Lord. From me.” 

“I know,” she repeated, laying one wavering hand against his cheek. Antonin rubbed against it with the contentment of a great cat, his stubble sandpaper against her palm. 

“Though I find it difficult to deny you when you are so well-behaved.” His voice lowered to a rumble through his chest, hot and purring against her. 

Her eyes softened and she leant up to graze her lips over his. “I know.” She took his bottom lip between her own and swiped at the top, teeth skimming below, and he groaned. One tight fist wove through her hair to hold her in place as Antonin took over the kiss. Within their first breath he turned her to straddle him, burning fingers tugging at her neckline until her breasts were revealed, pert over the top of her dress and nipples blushing and tightening at the cool air of the study.

“Perfect girl,” he murmured, thumbs brushing her peaks before grounding into her hips to thrust up against her. She could feel his steel desire and whimpered. “Will you ride me?” He trailed to the skirt ridden high on her thighs and upward to the line of lace trimming. Her barely distinguishable nod sent a pulse through his member and she tried to suppress her reaction. “Good girl.” Her knickers disappeared and she was now pressed against the stiff material of his trousers. 

Hermione leant back to unweave his belt from his trousers, biting her lips as she peered up at Antonin through her lashes, he who laid at his leisure watching her with heavy eyes. A dry hiss burst through his teeth as the girl’s slim hand skirted into the shadows of his pants and pulled out his length, steel under velvet in her palm. 

“So good for me. Go on.” At his prompting, Hermione rose once more, hips canting to place her entrance over him. Before she could question herself, she began the process of sinking onto him, working herself open by easing up and down. 

The man himself kept hands back from her even as his head breached her warmth. It wasn’t until she worked herself so the head met her end that he let out a low groan. 

Hermione’s eyes, focused then on the black of his clothed chest, snapped up to his features to study the intent pleasure. They were dark and dripping with hunger for her, lust casting a deep shadow over his expression. A thrill of lilting power stroked her insides, curious in the pleasure it wrought. Her walls thrummed and Antonin thrust up against her to encourage her movement, but Hermione was intrigued by the change in dynamic and instead felt the corner of her lips tugging upward, eyes narrowing to heated slits. 

Wondering what power she might wring from him, Hermione cupped her breasts, thumbs soothing her peaked nipples. Dolohov licked his lips and her smirk sharpened before pinching her peaks, twisting in the way he often did as they skirted the line between pleasure and pain. Her hips rolled in long, sensual motions. When Antonin moved to join his hands with her, Hermione shook her head playfully and laid one on his chest. 

The man chuckled and raised a brow, but allowed her to keep her momentum, arms crossing behind his head to watch. 

The hand on his chest tickled toward her core to strum her clit. It combined with the deliciousness of her ephemeral rule to create a warmth that heated her lust. She increased the pace of her rolling hips, stirring the fire until she was biting her lip, but still she could not reach the height. Not even when she was slamming herself against the man beneath her. A soft whimper issued forth and then Antonin broke. His fingers engulfed the span of her hips and he took over the rhythm of their sex, crushing her against him and wrecking her cervix with the head of his cock.

It was when he shifted them to have her bouncing on his lap, body curved into hers and teeth gnashing at her breasts that Hermione crested. Her walls fluttered like an uncertain vice around his hardness and her nails clawed at his shoulders as she cried out her pleasure. Antonin was soon behind her. He wrapped his large arms around her and pulled her to him as his cock spluttered inside her, holding her for long moments even after.

“So good for me, my beloved.” Antonin pulled back and smoothed her sweaty curls. “I see you are turning to my hand so beautifully. Moulded for me alone.” He kissed her forehead, then wormed a hand to press over her womb, murmuring and stroking over the skin. “Perhaps this will be the seed that takes, hm? I admit I’d hoped you would fall pregnant sooner. I am impatient for a family with you. But such things often take time unless we take matters into our own hands.”

“Please don’t.” Hermione tried to withhold the horror from her voice, but his cutting smile told her she failed. 

“Don’t you want children?”

Uncertainty lapped at the edges of her mind; Hermione had always assumed she’d have a family some day, but with him she found that desire shriveled, her heading bowing to break contact with his eyes.

Steel gripped her chin and forced it back upward. “I see. Perhaps I should remind you who rules in this house.” His length still inside her pulsed, threatening to harden once more.

“No,” she insisted. “No, please. I’m not fighting you. I’m only... I’m still young. And this is still new. Please.”

Antonin’s eyes were as metallic as his grip. “Is five months so little to you, my dearest? I suppose one of your age does not know how precious and precarious life is. I’d thought war would temper that.” Fingertips stroked her jaw. He rolled over her on the couch, hips jutting against her. “I will need to teach you more. But you are an apt student; I doubt it will take much longer.” 

He was already hard inside of her again, his length slickened by her previous arousal and his spend. He filled every corner of her as he slammed into her, lowered his lips to her own, devouring her mouth and conquering it with his tongue. Merlin, Circe, and Fates abounding, it felt like a tempting Hell as she fell unwillingly into pleasure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow on the tweeter for more info on my happenings; link in carrd, carrd in profile. I also want to thank you all for reading along. The comments are always a joy to read. 
> 
> When I see that my use of language is jarring, it kind of thrills me. You see, I have PTSD and sometimes reality is jarring for me. I love startling people into different headspaces. I like making them think twice about the metaphors we use. I also love playing with language. So thank you. Thank you and thank you again.


	45. All Hallows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Halloween begins at Hogwarts and ends in a graveyard.

It was a beautifully crisp Autumn day that waned into a starry evening. The constellations sparkled overhead, dotted with the warm orange of lit candles. That she was there in the Great Hall should have filled Hermione with a sense of joy, wonder, the smooth burn of homecoming; instead it was a cruel heated vice around her heart. 

She was at a lengthened head table, her chair shorter, lesser than Antonin’s beside her to indicate her lesser status. The man had his left hand on her knee, possessive even when it had been made clear to all that she belonged to him. After all, whenever he was unneeded during her scant work days he was there with her, glaring at every boy who dared speak to the little librarian.

But still, Halloween at Hogwarts was a sight to behold; the Dark Lord had not changed too much of the festivities, though he had done away with Houses and Sorting. Only Ravenclaw and Slytherin dormitories were open, which was more than enough for the reduced student population. Half-bloods were housed in Ravenclaw Tower and purebloods in Slytherin’s dungeons. The students all wore black and silver ties, though previously sorted Slytherins wore a snake pin to proclaim their superiority over others. There were six Prefects to assist in ordering the students, four pureblood and two half-blood, and both headboy and headgirl were pure bloods. 

Hermione felt like a thorn, a shard of glass, a pebble in a stream as the only muggleborn amidst the pedigreed wizards and witches surrounding. While none dared insult her with Antonin so near, the moments she was with only Draco to guard her were laden with thinly veiled insults from sneering lips. Only a bold, kind few treated her as a person, all of them students who had known her or known of her before. The first years seemed mostly confused.

“No wine, love.” Antonin’s palm covered her goblet as she raised the decanter to pour herself a glass of robust red. “I would not wish you to imbibe when we will be performing ritual magic later this evening.”

Electric curiosity spasmed through her chest. “Ritual? What ritual?”

“Samhain, my dear.” He smiled, thumb stroking her thigh through the silk of her black robes. “It is a celebration of the time the veil is thinnest, and we may invoke the spirits of those who have passed.”

“And you plan to do so? To what end?”

“I wish to invoke my mother, father, ancestors… there is great power in invoking one’s lineage on this day. Perhaps we may even call to some of your own.” 

Her amber eyes, nearly glowing from the warm light abounding, narrowed at his evasion. Hermione did not trust Antonin with what power he had, and she was certain the power of the ritual would be wielded by him and him alone. 

He poured pumpkin juice into her goblet and stroked her cheek. “Do not get too full; we have an eventful evening ahead of us.”

Hermione nodded as her stomach twisted, wheeling too much to consider the bountiful feast laid out. She nibbled at a tart, but could not bring herself to eat much more. Too soon Dolohov was taking her hand leading her home.

He did not take her inside however. Instead they took the familiar route to the graveyard where the center had been readied for a ceremony. There were unlit candles scattered around it and stones with Celtic symbols in a circle.

Hermione’s hand attempted flight from the man’s, but Antonin’s grip tightened. She knew a sex ritual when she saw one even if she’d never taken part before. 

“Come,  _ lubimaya _ . We shouldn’t dawdle.” He drew her to the center despite her reluctant feet, divesting them both with a flick of his wand. Hermione watched with envy; that wand was unkind, bristling. She’d managed to touch it only once and knew it would never bend to her wishes. Another flick and a circle drew between the stones surrounding them, glowing faintly before the light seeped into the earth. Antonins wand was set aside and he took her hands in his.

“Tonight, as the veil thins and Samhain’s bonfires are lit, we call upon those who gave us birth and those who begat them and on and on to the start of our lineage. Tonight we ask that they lend us their power, their spirits, their strength to our own magical cores. May we glow with their radiance and may we succeed in our endeavors.” His fingers twined with hers. “So may it be.” One brow lifted and she repeated the last words of his entreaty.

A hush fell over the graveyard, as though the insects, the animals, the winds themselves held their collective breaths. And then dry wicking sounded as the candles flickered to life. The keen heat of their hearts sparked in their fingers and flooded out from there.

“Lie down, love.” 

The ground beneath her was warm and the air buzzed drunkenly in the circle. Energy ran across her skin like ants wherever the air touched and heat emanated from beneath her. It was heady and terrifying.

Antonin lowered to kneel between her legs, propping her feet against the ground and her knees bent. His fingers caressed lovingly over her stomach and he gazed at her adoringly before turning heavenward and blinking up at the sky between the trees. “Midnight comes. And with it so will we.” With that Antonin lowered his mouth and devoured her core until she was writing beneath him, her juices strewn across his face. “Tlachtga, daughter, mother, goddess of old. May your light be lit and your blessings upon us. Take her as your vessel as I spill my seed inside her. Macha of the Morrigna, triple goddess of these lands, fill us with your fire as we pass this evening into the wheel of day. So may it be.”

And then he was upon her.

Whether from the ritual or the starlight and fire surrounding, he seemed to glow above her. The lines of his pale flesh were blurred as his cock slid into her well-prepared folds and sank within her. It was hot as the forges of Hephaestus and quenched her own sudden heat with its own, searing a line from core to nipples until her back bowed with unbidden pleasure.

He was thrusting painfully deep and hard within her, but her body unspooled around him so it felt like the most wondrous unbecoming. Her toes curled and her thighs clenched him to her. Her nails rent his flesh until blood welled. 

“Yes,” he hissed as she scored him again. “Little goddess, draw forth my sacrifice.” He smeared her hand against the blood on his chest and slammed her palm to the earth. “Fuck, my sweet girl. My perfect girl.” He bent over her, her glaringly golden thighs over his shoulders and spewed filthy nothings into her ear, incomprehensible to her though she knew the gist of them from the veracity of his lust. 

They fueled the tightening of her core, the twisting of her pleasure until she was crying out her orgasm around him. It blinded her in starlight and moonlight, in lightning and fire, in his glow and her own. It pulsed through her hot as embers, cresting until she was weeping beneath him. And still he pumped into her, drawing every ounce of pleasure from her body until it drained her of herself, hollowing out Hermione so she felt like she was drifting over them, her body only a shell. A vessel to fill.

And fill it he did. Antonin threw back his head and held her hips to his own as he cried out his release. Departed from her body though she was, Hermione could feel him spending in her, the light and warmth and buzzing energy around them funneling through him and into her as well. 

Blinded, she drifted. On fire, she screamed. Lightning coursed her veins until her skin hummed with it. And then Antonin collapsed beside her, his cock slipping free and his essence dripping into the fertile earth.

As she came back to herself, drifting like a feather through the thermals above until she landed so gently and softly she was hardly aware, Hermione realized he was laughing. It was a rich, deep sound at odds with everything she knew of the man. But that didn’t surprise her nearly as much as the realization that she was laughing too.

She had never felt so alive in her life; it was as though she  _ was _ life, the primordial essence of nature, of womanhood that birthed the race of men itself. She felt a kinship with her mother, Monica Wilkins, Helen Granger; she could feel the dancing string of genes she’d inherited from her grandmothers, Layla Smith and Sophie Granger. Their mothers were alive in her as well. And all the way back, so that the tiniest seed of life that had sparked the universe at the dawn of time sang in her as well.

Hermione turned one cheek to the thrumming ground and took in the man beside her. Where she was warm, he now was cool to the touch. Where she hummed with life, he echoed with the depth of the deepest chasms of death. But there was still a power there, as life bred death and death begat life. He stroked her cheek upon noticing her attention.

“My goddess, my beloved.” Antonin drew her down to him and kissed her lips, their dark and light entwining more intimately than bodies ever could. “As the Green Man dies, so shall He be born again from the seed He has planted.” 

Hermione laid her head on his chest, basking in the strangeness of their coupling. With a hand, Antonin conjured a blanket to cover them, though Hermione felt her warmth may never run dry. Still alight with the power of the ritual, she dozed against him.

In the background her mind churned and frothed, wondering what this ritual would create. And whether she could use the power now flowing in her veins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The ritual here is completely fabricated, a Dolohov-family exclusive thing. I have researched mythos of different areas quite a bit, but wanted to dig deeper than Arthurian legend for this. Anyway, some more will be mentioned next chapter.


	46. Desperation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day after.

The morning fell on Hermione like a hammer to a knife as it was beaten into shape, the night before underlying her sore state the anvil by which she was flattened. Her head resounded with blurry recollections. Instead of Dolohov’s muscled chest a pillow cushioned her cheek; instead of hard earth she was on her bed. Leadened arms pushed her upward and then she held her aching head. 

Hermione distinctly recalled Antonin refusing her wine last night, so why was she fuzzy and hurting and stiff? The scant light through thick curtains scissored through her eyeballs and straight to her brain. And the air around her hummed unpleasantly across tangled, over-sensitive nerves.

She rubbed her palms against her eyes in an effort to soothe the sharp stab, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. A too-loud POP! signaled the entrance of Topsy, her long ears waving from her apparition. “A potion for Missy.” Long, knobby fingers held the vial aloft. “Master instructed Topsy to deliver a pain potion, said Missy would need it first thing.”

Hermione tossed back the liquid, grimacing at the taste on the back of her tongue and handing it back. “Thank you, Topsy. I definitely did.”

The elf beamed. “Breakfast is ready whenever Missy is. Master says to take your time.”

“How kind.” Topsy did not seem to catch the sarcasm, but Hermione actually was grateful as she stood shakily from her bed and crept toward the toilet for morning ablutions. She was dressed in soft, nearly white robes that morning. The color was almost pearlescent, shining pink as it hit the right angle, and fell just above her feet, modest and lovely with a comfortable empire waist. 

Antonin rose from his seat when she appeared, taking her hands and planting a kiss on her brow as usual. “Good morning, kitten. I see the pain potion was well-received.”

“Good morning.” She slid into her chair with a practiced smoothness and plucked at fruit offered to her. “It was, thank you. I confess I woke feeling somewhat… well, hungover, I suppose. The ritual last night, what was it? I’m hazy on the details, but I can’t recall encountering it before.”

His quicksilver eyes gleamed at her in the morning light. “You wouldn’t have, I imagine. It is old, as old as the land and built upon it over the generations.” When she did not respond, still gazing curiously at him, Antonin continued. “In the beginning it was a ritual of God and Goddess, the Green Man and the Lady. This land where my grandfather made his home is the land the first Samhain fires were built. These are the lands of Tlachtga, a goddess older than Samhain itself. As stories merge and change over the years, so too did hers, and it twined and echoed in Macha of the Morrigna.” A faint chime echoed as his slick fingertip traced the edge of his water goblet. “Some think she may have been one of them, others that she came before, or after.” He shrugged. “Whether she is a part of them or not doesn’t matter; this was the land where she gave birth and died, where she grieved and was grieved. The hill itself is beyond the trees, but there is power surrounding. And no muggles to taint this part.” 

Hermione swallowed through the clumsy muscles of her throat. “Is not the Green Man usually invoked for Beltane?”

“He is, yes, but his death for the land may be invoked for Samhain.” Antonin brushed knuckles over her cheek. “His sacrifice for the good of the land and the seed that sleeps through winter.”

Hermione’s stomach churned, but she was quickly cross-referencing what she knew of the Morrigan, Macha, and Celtic lore. Ulster. Macha was somehow associated with Ulster, and she frowned, a map of Ireland reflected as though floating just beneath the surface of clear water drawing up in her mind. 

“My grandfather and father both drew upon the power in this land, and upon those laid to rest here. My grandfather‘s family had long drawn on their line during such rituals, so he combined those of this land with our paternal magics.”

“Does your family have a grimoire?” Raised as a muggle Protestant, Hermione did not know nearly as much of Celtic mythos, though she had gobbled down all she could find once she’d found out Merlin was a real wizard. The Morrigan featured there, but not this Tlachtga. She would need to read further.

Antonin’s fingertips skittered over the soft back of her hand. “We have our family texts, yes. Perhaps I will let you see them someday.”

“I would appreciate that,” she murmured, the bones of her hand trembling beneath the paper-thin flesh between them and his fingers, fingers that had gripped them til they creaked within his grasp. They remembered, as did other parts of her body, and they all seemed to hum at his proximity.

When Hermione was excused from breakfast she went to the library and dallied among Dolohov’s tomes of Celtic lore, but she was preoccupied with flashes from the evening before. His skin had been hot and luminous as it yielded to her nails, the steamy hiss of his breath raised gooseflesh on the meat where shoulder joined throat. His eye had washed darkly with lust when he stroked a palm through the blood she had drawn, shining ruby streaked across his moonlight. He had given the blood to the ground and it had quenched a thirst Hermione hadn’t known she carried within. Like she was the earth and she was drinking it up.

Even now her core clenched. It was neither hunger nor lust, but a part of both the same. It was above, beneath, behind, before, a deep, tiny pulse that echoed the power of the night before. Behind clenched lids it was a spur of light. She imagined that the night before she had seen milky silver and tawny gold shining out of them and chasing shadow-edged patterns on the scant canopy over their heads. It had danced and played like ghosts, like pool light reflected onto the walls of the eerie gymnasium she’d snuck into once. 

Then it had blinded her even as it radiated from her and she’d have to shut her eyes from its glare, scoring Antonin again as pleasure flooded every corner of her body with its keen essence. 

Dull clattering tugged her from reverie and Hermione startled at the world around her, gazing in either direction for the interruption only to realize it had been the spine of the book fallen from her hands to stutter against the floor. Had it been so visceral a memory?

Apparently it had. 

Hermione gathered the book from the worn wood and soothed its ruffled pages. She would bury herself curled in her favorite chair, favorite pillow assisting her in propping up the hardcover, favorite little blanket strewn across her shoulders. How strange the world had become, she found herself musing.

“There you are.” Wry voice as creaking as a fire woke her from the hypnotic trance of reading and Hermione’s neck spasmed at the force with which her head snapped up. 

“You’re early.” 

The Potions Master’s thin lips quirked. “Am I?” Black eyes darted to the clock and back to meet her own. “It seems you are correct for once, Miss Granger. Now stand.”

Hermione peered behind him as she got to her feet, but Antonin was not in sight. “Does he know you’re here?”

“Of course, he knows, Granger; no one could enter this home without his knowledge.” Wand motions over her body revealed the usual spattering of light, though for once there were no sickly greens or pulsing scarlets. Snape considered the results, brows furrowed. “This is… unexpected. I had thought there would be more after last night.”

Hermione hadn’t noticed the lack, but thinking back to her bath could not recall any bruises or cuts or marks upon her person. Her body was hale for once. “I think the ritual might have healed me.” 

Obsidian cut to meet her amber. “Ritual? What ritual?”

“I don’t know exactly; he said it had something to do with the origins of Samhain’s bonfires and the Morrigan. He drew power from the land and his ancestors.” The lights had whirled away like streams of smoke through the beams of the library and she shifted awkwardly at his continued scrutiny.

“You’re sure?”

Hermione nodded, fingers plucking at the material of her robes. “It was-- there was so much power and I have no idea what he did with it. I can feel some of it still, but last night, I was drunk off it. I swear we were glowing like the sun and the moon, and I wish I had siphoned some then so I could do something-- anything. I need to do  _ something, _ professor, because I am going mad here, I know it. I will snap. Or I’ll take Lucius bloody Malfoy’s offer of allyship.”

“Lucius offered an alliance with you?” Snape swept to the settee. “Curious to extend that now.” He stroked the stubble over one pallid cheek. “We don’t have much time.” A nod to himself. “You should take it.”

“I should?” Her brows threatened to tangle with her curls. 

“Lucius has the power of money, magic, and lineage. He is once more rising in the Dark Lord’s esteem, and his home is one of the most secure in all of the Wizarding world.” She scoffed. “With a word he could lock out any but those with Malfoy blood in their veins; none have ever managed to pass those  _ particular _ wards.” 

“I haven’t had the best reception there,” Hermione drawled. “If you’ll recall.”

“You were never his ally before, were you?” 

“I suppose I wasn’t. Though the last time I wasn’t exactly his enemy either.” Her voice curdled as memory of icy water chilled her insides.

“No.” He worked his jaw, the line between his brows deepening. “Being under the Dark Lord’s… thumb… as Lucius and his family have been would try even the best of men, and Lucius has never been that. His cruelty has only sharpened over the years.”

“Am I supposed to pity him?”

Snape huffed a laugh that seemed at himself as much as her words. “Not at all.” He sighed, chest rising to impossible fullness, then rose. “Sleep on it, Miss Granger. I will see you soon, I’m sure.” 

Hermione watched the dramatic swish of black robes as Severus Snape strode toward the drawing room. She followed to the library’s door, hovering long enough to hear him call his destination to the fireplace. Returning to her book, Hermione curled back up and tapped out a thoughtful rhythm on the spine. 

Silver flashed like lightning over her thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was gonna write about some of the lore mentioned here and the research I bury myself in, but today is one Hell of a day. And I feel this is not the worst it will get here in the US of A. Wherever you are, whatever your country is facing, stay safe.


	47. Worth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A day in the library, a deal with an enemy.

Wooden edges cut against her cheek and chest and hips, jarring contrast with the silken heat at her throat. 

“Ah, Antonin,” Hermione tried once more, “I have shelving to do.” His hands tightened on hips that had softened at his table, filled out for the first time in her nineteen years. 

His hardness ground against her backside as Antonin’s lips popped from laving sun-touched flesh. “You have hours yet for that,  _ katyonok _ . Let me enjoy you.” He plied her with the sharp hint of teeth, setting shivers over her. 

“A student could enter at any moment.”

“Let them.” His hips rolled against her and she bit her lip. “How about I fuck you against the books, hm? We can go to the Restricted Section, keep the young ones safe from my deviant ways.” Antonin’s hands roamed over her abdomen, one cupping her sex through her dress, sickeningly delicious. “We can find a book on sex magic and try out a few things, hm?”

Hermione shook her head uselessly, though it hardly moved, trapped as she was. 

“Your body disagrees, kitten. So wet for me.” Thick fingers skimmed her lower lips and her face flushed just as that part of her had. His fingers slipped into her one at a time, twisting until her back tried to bow.

“As delightful as your molestation of Miss Granger might be, perhaps you could refrain from putting on a show in the library.” The echoing click of the cane underscored Lucius Malfoy’s disdain. She could hear the sneer, the curl of his upper lip, the roll of his icy eyes.

Dolohov became a wall behind her. “Lucius, hello.” Her dress dropped in a wave over her legs and he extricated himself, grimacing at the slick sound of him sucking his fingers clean. “I thought we were to meet at eight?” 

“Yes, well, Severus is at the front desk. He wants a word with you.”

“Then why is he not here with you?” He released her from the cage of his arms and Hermione stretched her aching neck, timid fingers checking for splinters on her cheek. 

“Perhaps he was smart enough to know you’d be manhandling the girl.” His expression was as bored as his voice. “Is there ever a moment she isn’t guiding you by your cock, Dolohov?”

“Speaking of, Malfoy, how is your wife?” 

Hermione’s glance darted between the sharp cruelty of Antonin’s eyes to Lucius Malfoy’s thundering features. She did not understand the slight, but it must have been grave to set the man alight as he was.

It pleased Antonin and he bent to kiss her forehead before striding down the aisle, the wind of his passing fluttering Malfoy’s immaculate robes. Lucius maintained his position, the flare of his nostrils his only reaction to their proximity.

And then a hush blanketed them as their eyes met. Hermione counted one, two, three beats of her heart as the man raised a brow. Four, five, six. This was the moment, thrumming in her bones. “I want an alliance.”

“What was that?” 

She licked her lips, pulse in her throat tuning her voice to a fine tremble. “I want to negotiate an alliance with you.”

His gaze, edged with blue like a line between sea and sky, narrowed. “What do you have to offer, Miss Granger?”

Hermione subdued the urge to run moist palms against her thighs and straightened her head. “Vold-- the Dark Lord, you think I could gain his favor?” After a curt nod, she continued, “I know Draco is currently  _ not _ favored; I could stand by him as a friend, an ally, to bolster him in the Dark Lord’s eyes.”

Lucius’ own eyes rolled disdainfully. “Is that all? I will be using my good name, my gold, my connections for a mudblood, and you offer friendship to my son? Hardly fair, is it?”

Wet tongue flitted across dry lips. “I could teach him as well. I’m clever and--”

“You will ally with the Malfoy line as a whole.” His sharp tone cut through her brittle offering and Hermione swallowed the remainder down like pumpkin juice gone bad. “And you will make it an oath on your magic.”

“That’s--”

“In return I will swear to provide you my personal protection.” That was unexpected, and Hermione didn’t quite have the words to respond. The corner of his cruel mouth lifted. “I will provide you protection as though you are a Malfoy yourself.”

She frowned, fists clenching and releasing before wiping them at last. “You’ll make it an oath on your magic? Truly?” 

“I would.”

“Alright. But you go first.”

His chuckle spread coldly through the space between them as he raised his wand from the confines of his cane. “I swear on my magic I will protect Hermione Granger as though she carried Malfoy blood within her veins.”

The weight of the oath settled over them, a bare tightening of the flesh. “I don’t have a wand…” she murmured.

“Raise your wand hand. Magic is all intention, so pour your intention into the oath.” He spoke slowly, but without malice.

Hermione nodded and lifted her hand, palm to him. “I swear on my magic I will act as an ally to the Malfoy line.” Shade gasped as magic flooded from her hand and back out over her like a wave. It was like a nerve that had been asleep for so long she’d forget about it, or a muscle so disused she didn’t remember how to flex it. She stared at her palm in a daze and laughed. “I can feel my magic. I can  _ feel _ it. I felt it.” She laughed again, staring at an unruffled Lucius Malfoy. “It’s been so long.” An echo of water drops falling against a stony floor rippled in her mind. Before that it had been-- She shook her head free of helplessness echoing through her memories. 

“Magic does not disappear for want of a wand, Miss Granger. Remember that.” She nodded as he turned to face the main walkway of the library. “I will see you soon.”

“Thank you, Mister Malfoy.” Those were words she never thought she’d utter; Malfoy paused, a slight stiffening of the shoulders, then walked away toward the other men. 

Hermione was left to her books and wondering what in the bloody hell had happened. 

Lucius Malfoy had said he would protect her like she was a Malfoy herself. He was fiercely protective, as Draco had displayed across the years. The barest hint of a threat was enough to have the man come in wand sparking. With his resources protection extended beyond the strength of his magic; he had clout, political and societal. 

And what had she given in exchange? The word of her vow stated it as allyship for the line as a whole. What would he ask of her in the future, in the spirit of that alliance? 

Her hand was still warm and she drew it to her chest, feeling the steady thrum of her heart through the cavern of her chest, echoing with pulses of that power she’d felt before. 

Hermione wasn’t stupid; she knew about wandless magic, had read about it, but it was a difficult skill. Her attempts had mostly failed, like the time she was strung up in Malfoy Manor. Perhaps she was overthinking it, had tried too hard. When M. Malfoy had told her how to swear without a wand he had done so matter-of-factly that she couldn’t doubt he knew it would work. 

_ “Magic does not disappear for want of a wand.” _

She tore her sticky gaze from her palm and directed it toward the books awaiting her sorting. 

_ Start simple. You’ve already performed wandless magic, so simple spells should work for you. What was one of the first spells you mastered? _

A huff of laughter escaped at a certain memory of her being her swotty twelve-year-old self. Hermione gestured at the top book, straightening her spine and falling into her usual casting stance. When she spoke, her voice was precise, practiced.  _ “Wingardium leviosa.” _

The book tottered uncertainly before rising with the motion of her wrist. Her forefinger gently guided it forward, forward until it fit neatly in the space between finger and thumb. Her shoulders rolled and she released a breath that had hovered in her lungs. She’d done it. The thrill that she’d lost long ago, the one that accompanied her first ever success, when she’d brewed her first potion, when she balanced the Arithmantic equation and the conclusion stared boldly in her face, revealed in all its glory, that warmth suffused her from teeth to toes. 

Wand or no, Hermione Granger was a witch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slowly creeping toward the end. Not sure exactly, but probably 5-10 chapters depending on how much I get led around.


	48. Want of a Wand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Discussions, decisions, sad news.

It was weeks before Hermione again met her erstwhile adversary. Dolohov returned to the library with a wariness she associated with any man near her, though he came alone. However, his air was soon explained.

“You will join me tonight at Malfoy Manor. The Dark Lord wishes to have the pleasure of your company.” His eyes gleamed between thick, dark lashes. “Come; we will Floo there directly.” His fingers gripped her arm rather than reaching to escort her, digging into the muscle like overripe fruit. 

The halls were empty, echoing with their footsteps. Hermione’s were clipped and anxious beside the longer, hollow strides of Antonin. She darted glances around the silent paintings and barren walkways; though it was not yet curfew, no students were in sight. Hogwarts had become a halfway house to uneasy children, and they did not dare tiptoe the halls when there was greater safety in their dormitories.

The gargoyle sprang aside with a hesitance Hermione recognized as the castle’s suppressed desire for protection against threats, but if Antonin noted it, he said nothing. Snape was the only being awaiting them in the office itself, no snoozing portraits in sight, nor any thingamabobs whirling or doodads daddling. Just crisp angles, sorted stacks of parchment, neatly ordered books and the dour headmaster.

“Professor,” she said by way of greeting, and the pallid man gave a single nod in reply before Antonin tossed a handful of powder in the blazing hearth and called out the destination, pushing her gently but emphatically inside.

Spinning, sooty worlds blurred by before crashing onto the sight of the Malfoys’ upper study. Lucius Malfoy himself extended a hand to assist her from the fireplace so that Antonin could enter after. 

“Good evening, Miss Granger.” 

“Good evening, Mister Malfoy.” He guided her toward a chair circled around for the occasion. “Good evening, my lord, gentlemen.” Draco, Rabastan Lestrange, and Blaise Zabini were all present as well, though the oddity of one Lestrange brother without the other struck her gut like one of those pills that bubbled when it met liquid.

“Ah, the clever little mudblood! Welcome, Miss Granger.” Garnet eyes shone at her, his white flesh almost warm in the orange embrace of firelight. Before she could say anything, foolish or otherwise, the fire roared to sound the coming of her Death Eater companion.

Fingertips against the small of her back preceded him drawing her away from Lucius and to himself. When he sat and tugged as though to pull her onto his lap, the dry his of Voldemort’s voice washed down her spine. “Ah, Antonin. I would like Miss Granger to sit in the chair beside you so that I may more easily speak to her and Severus both.”

“My lord.” His fingers tightened on her smaller hand until her bones shifted, then he released her to amble beside him. 

“After all, we must discuss the upcoming N.E.W.T.s, isn’t that right?” His voice was as clever as his eyes, sharp as his teeth. 

Her heart stuttered in her chest as she looked between her old professor and the Dark Lord. “I can take my N.E.W.T.s? Truly?”

“We are allowing Draco the luxury of the same; you will come to Hogwarts during the examinations to take them with this year’s cohort. Do you think you can be ready in six months’ time?”

“Yes,” she breathed, adding eager nods at Snape. “Yes, thank you! Thank you both.” Lest he react negatively, Hermione laid a hand across Dolohov’s own. “Thank you, Antonin.” Before she could lift it, he took it in his own and raised it to kiss. 

“Draco raised an excellent point,” the Dark Lord drawled. “His own results and those of your yearmates cannot be put in context without your own. Even Lucius insisted he needed to see how his son compared to the mudblood swot.”

She glanced to see the pale man salute with the beret rise of his tumbler. “I am appreciative whatever the reason.” Her eyes widened as a realization dropped into her thoughts and washed her mind momentarily clean of all else. “I’ve got to make a study schedule! Only six months. I’ll be up all night. And books. I’ll need--”

“I am sure you have plenty of time,” Snape cut in. “I daresay you could have passed your N.E.W.T.s along with your O.W.L,s with how you’re known to burn your candle at either end.”

“That’s the understatement of the fucking century,” rumbled Blaise, invoking Draco’s muffled laughter. 

Hermione was pink to her ears. “I got an E on my Defense O.W.L.,” she remarked. “I’m hardly the perfect student.”

“Somehow.” The obsidian of Snape’s gaze flitted to her. “I doubt that will be the case this time. Your practical was your drawback then, and I daresay you’ve had cause to improve.”

The truth of it rang as hollow as a graveyard bell. “Do you think…” Hermione turned toward Dolohov and back to him. “Do you think I could practice brewing? It has been some time, and when brewing on the run it was under less than ideal conditions.”

Antonin raised a brow at his colleague who said, “We shall see.”

“I’d be glad to do so under supervision, perhaps take over some of the more tedious potion brewing for the infirmary. Any practice would be a great help.”

Her hand in her keeper’s grip was stroked, drawing her attention to the brooding man. “He said, ‘We shall see,’ my love. I’m sure Severus is aware you are willing to work for it. We can save that discussion for another time.”

“If she is this eager for a little brewing what would the girl do for a wand?” The tone was closer to what Hermione was used to hearing from the Malfoy patriarch: dark, mocking, amused.

“Prob’ly get down on her knees and suck every cock in the room.” Lestrange hissed at the jinx sent his way, scowling at Dolohov. “I wasn’t suggesting it.”

“And if you had I’d have sent more than a little biting jinx,” Antonin retorted. He nuzzled the back of her hand, stubble pricking at the thin flesh like the tongue of a cat. “Hermione is mine, and I will not entertain thoughts of others pawing at her.”

Icy laughter slithered from Voldemort’s lipless mouth. “So possessive, Antonin. No worries. The only ones here who would consider taking advantage of Miss Granger’s charms are not foolish enough to go against you.” 

Dolohov’s tumbler of whiskey pressed against her arm until she took it in her free hand to sip. Both of his now massaged the soft expanse of her palm, thumbs rubbing loving little circles while she drank. 

Snape leaned closer to her, peering keenly from his tall chair. “Lucius asked an interesting question.” His deep baritone was low, for her ears. “What would you do for a wand?”

“I think,” she said carefully, slowly weighing her words. “There is little I would not do, depending on who is making the offer.” And were it Severus Snape, no doubt what he asked would be for the Order, the resistance, whatever they were now.

He stared at her, into her, and Hermione wondered whether the prickling in the back of her head was Snape’s bladelike mind delving into her mind with the precision of a surgeon. He nodded at last and sat back, turning toward the fire.

A wand. Her blood stirred in her veins, sending ripples of excitement through her. It wouldn’t be her wand; Hermione was sure that was lost to the world now. But it would be a wand she could use or what would be the point. 

“Are you alright, kitten?” 

The glass sat against her thigh. She looked up, blinking. “Hm? Yes. I’m fine.”

Antonin reached out and stroked the rough pad of his forefinger down her cheek. “You look lost in your thoughts.”

“I’m trying to figure out what books I’ll need to reread, and where they are currently. Do you think I should track down first year texts to review?” She worried at her lip, knowing this excuse was fully capable of her.

“I think you’ll be fine without going that far back.” His eyes glittered in amusement. “Celebrate tonight, love. You can worry your pretty little head about it tomorrow.”

Condescending prick. Hermione smiled, nodded, sipped at the alcohol to keep from scowling instead. It burned a line straight into her stomach, sloshing heatedly there. Without having much for dinner, it soon created a pleasant buzz in her head. 

Antonin ran his nails lightly over her forearm, tingles fanning outward in spirals. “You look pretty tonight, kitten.”

He’d seen her fresh and clean that morning, had spent time throughout the day with her, had dragged her from the library this evening without giving her the grace of a moment to freshen up; Hermione knew her hair was an absolute disaster, frizzing curls defying gravity as they would, and that carried the daily odors of sweat and oil and whatnot. Her teeth usually felt ghastly in her mouth by this time of night. But sincerity wefted through the compliment, highlighted by expanding pupils. 

“Thank you.” 

Fingertips danced to her throat, tickling against the length of her collarbone and thumbing her quickening pulse. She was falling into the lovely feelings when a familiar name tugged her from the bubbling of warmth.

“--Weasley cunt didn’t stop screaming til ‘er throat bled.” Lestrange bared yellow teeth as he cackled. “Bitch shouldn’t’ve tried shooting the Killing Curse at Bella if she didn’t want to die by inches.”

Hermione’s head swam from whipping toward the horrid man. Dread splashed against the walls of her stomach. “What?”

“Hm?” He stilled and squinted at her as though he had forgotten her existence, then a nasty grin unfurled. “Just discussing what happened when we managed to capture the Weasley broodmare. We had such fun torturing the blood traitor. It was a shame when she finally died. Heart burst during the Cruciatus.” He sighed wistfully. “You were friends with that lot, weren’t you? So sad, how they’re dying off like gnats.”

The glass clinked to the floor as she was plunged in deep, cold water. Molly Weasley was dead. She turned questioningly to Snape, but he had nothing for her.

“There, love.” Antonin gripped her bicep to hold her upright and she just caught the motion of his wand righting the spilled drink. “Just hold a moment.” He stood and tugged her to his chest, murmuring excuses she didn’t care to hear. 

Molly and Fred and Ron were all dead. How many other Weasleys had passed? How many other friends, fighters, others? And here she was drinking firewhiskey with Death Eaters, with Voldemort himself, discussing her bloody N.E.W.T.s of all things. 

As they apparated back to Antonin’s Hermione pulled back, laying a hand on the scratchy cheek to direct his gaze down into her serious oaken eyes. “How many others have died since I came here?”

“Kitten…” 

“No, Antonin. I deserve to know. Tell me, how many of my friends have you helped kill? Of my classmates?” 

He laid a hand over the one pressed to his face. “I don’t know. I can’t know for certain, can I?” When she trembled he curled an arm around her waist. “I had nothing to do with the Weasleys, not even your little boyfriend. There have been others, of course. A girl with long, dark hair and a twin. I believe that one was dead the moment her sister fell, she just hadn’t stopped breathing yet.”

“Padma and Parvati?” Hermione hadn’t been close to Padma Patil, didn’t know the Ravenclaw particularly well outside of classes, but while she and Parvati weren’t friends, she’d lived with the other girl for six years of her life. She had learned alongside the Patils, fought alongside them. “You killed-- you killed one of the Patil girls?”

“Hermione, my love, do you think I had a choice? They were our enemies. They fought well.”

She shook her head. “How did you--”

“Do you really want to know?” Antonin cupped her cheek and leaned down to whisper tenderly over her. “Do you want to hear how the others ridiculed her, how they suggested ways to break her silence? Do you want to know whether she cried or begged? How she twitched, how she breathed her last breaths?” His lips trailed hers as tears overflowed. “No, love. You don’t want to hear those things. I won’t tell you.”

Hermione shoved against him with all her might, hardly rocking the man. “And why not? It would hurt me. And you like hurting me. So go on and hurt me some more, why don’t you. Just tell me all the horrible things you’ve done to people I care about and rip my heart to shreds.” She pounded against his chest with futile fists. “Or, better yet, take me down to your dungeon and show me. Do the same to me, you bloody coward. After all, I’m a schoolgirl as much as they were.” She hit again and again, raging at the man still against her. “I hate you. I hate you, you evil man. I will never, ever love you. I would rather--”

She coughed out the end of her word as Antonin shoved her into the wall, wrists captured in one of his own and hips pressing her flat. She struggled vainly for all of a second and then the well of sadness filled up and she broke down completely.

“I know,” he murmured into her hair. “I know, my sweet girl. War is cruel and you are trapped here with a crueler man.” When he released her she fell into waiting arms, scooped up and rocked against his chest as he sat. “I would spare you all of this knowledge if I could. Damned, bragging Lestrange. You shouldn’t have heard that. You didn’t need to.” A thumb streaked away her still falling tears. “I would rather stay here and comfort you, help you study, watch you grow.” 

Hermione hid her face against him, the anguish twisting her stomach until it too was too knotted for her to feel ill; she had ventured beyond that point. She thought she might fall and fall and fall, thoughts of her parents and oh god, Harry, pummeling any turn away from her grief. Each lost face lanced her heart and she was going to choke on her sobs. She needed something, anything to keep from drowning.

She scrambled to her knees on Antonin’s lap, shoving away his comforting hand. “Hurt me. Please.” Lines appeared between his brows. “I can’t stand it. Please hurt me. I can’t-- I don’t want to feel this anymore.”

“Are you sure, my love?” 

Her laugh squeezed out of her tight throat. “Yes. Please.”

His kiss was soft as the hiss of scales over desert sands. “Alright.”


	49. Snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione gets what she desired.

A cool breeze teased around her body, prefacing the whine of the whip through the air. It laced over her flesh before she could wince away, drawing out a soft whimper. It didn’t draw blood and she logically knew he wasn’t lashing her as hard as he had before, but it still stole the breath from her lungs and drew sounds of pain from her mouth.

Another cut against her almost immediately and then he smoothed a palm over her back. It was hot enough to sear and her back bowed. “There we are, love. Such a good girl for me.” He kissed a line down her throat before sinking teeth in without warning. 

“Bloody…” Hermione slumped as he eased back, shoulder stinging down to the muscle he’s ground in his jaws. When he drew back, she anticipated the delayed bite of the whip. Instead heavy leather thongs thudded across her welts. And while this hurt too, it was transformative, layering with the other pains to complete a tapestry of sensation.

The lengths thwacked against her buttocks and the backs of her thighs and Hermione danced on her toes. His carnal amusement trailed over her skin as the leather ends followed his trail around to her front. When her feet gained purchase again he kicked them apart and swung up between her legs. Hermione’s eyes widened theatrically, head thrown back in a silent cry. 

He battered at her breasts, her stomach, her thighs some more, sometimes only using the stinging ends of the flogger and sometimes using the lengths to their fullest. When she was shaking, adrenaline firing hotly through her, he circled back again and tugged her against his chest. “Is this what you needed?” he growled into the shell of her ear. “Hm? Is it?”

  
Hermione couldn’t respond, light flicks of his arm scattering the flogger against her stomach again and again, its weight heavier than she thought possible. 

“You needed me to take you down to my dungeon and string you up like a piece of meat.” His fingers skimmed down to her center, playing between slit and bundle of nerves at the apex, in sweet concert with the thudding against her body. “You’re wet for me. Do you want to see what happens to little girls who get wet from flogging?” Her head rolled back; he stopped flogging and the handle was against her navel, drawing down between her thighs.

“No--”

“Shhh.” He held her lips apart and twisted the long handle slowly into her, stretching and squelching. “You’re the victim here, kitten. Here for me to play with, remember? You asked for me to do this.” He kissed tenderly down her jaw and sped the thrusts inside of her, braided leather handle catching on every part. “Didn’t you? Didn’t you ask for me to use you? Say it.”

“Yes,” she hissed from a tight throat. 

“Look at that thick handle pumping inside you.” Antonin’s groan sent shivers across the back of her neck. “Such a pretty, hungry little cunt you have. Think you can come for me?” She shook her head and he nosed through her curls lovingly. “I think you can. Come on, be a good girl for me.” He licked the fingers that had played at her clit and returned them, insistent circles speeding to curl her toes. It coiled her insides, building pressure that twined with abrupt friction of the toy handle. 

“No, no, no,” she stammered fitfully, each motion inflaming the welts on her back and stirring the unbearable pleasure further along. She could feel Antonin’s starving gaze on her, feel his too-hot breath.

“But you don’t have a choice. You’re mine.  _ Mine _ .”

It started in waves, muscles of her core clenching first, sending electricity to her toes and to tingle along her scalp. It crested with each pump of the handle inside her, and became painful as Antonin’s fingers on her dragged it out, wrenching every ounce of pleasure from her until she was sobbing. 

When his hands finally fell away, flogger tossed aside, she hung raggedly in her bonds. He spelled the manacles open and drew her against him, apparating them to his bedroom. He laid her out, massaging her wrists as he murmured praises into her hair, then he draped himself over her, thrusting inside and hissing at the warmth of her.

Opened to him, fresh from tears and pleasure, it felt good. She wrapped her arms and legs around him and let him spill dirty words into her ears, spilling himself into her and still not slowing his pace. Her moans were cut with choked sobs, too much heat running through her veins, too much electricity rippling her muscles. The pleasure was painful in its intensity, her nerves worn raw so it felt like his body was playing them directly. 

Hermione scratched out her ragged orgasm in his flesh and just when she couldn’t stand it anymore she lunged forward and sank her teeth into the smooth, salty flesh of his shoulder. Antonin groaned out his release, thrusting into her fluttering walls with long strokes, then rolled beside her.

She could count her teeth in the imprint on his skin; she trailed her fingers over the ridges curiously. They were straight, uniform, teeth her parents would have been proud of.

Fingers stroked through her sweaty curls. Antonin stared up at her with beaming adoration written in his soft smile. “How are you feeling, my love?”

The question made her blink, mind turning inward only to find a frozen wonderland; all was bare, cool, blank. It was like the fuzzy screen that appeared on the telly when it didn’t have reception. “I’m fine.” She ached, but those aches all existed on the surface of her being, and what laid beyond was calm as stone. 

“Do you need anything?” 

“No.” A shiver ran over her cooling skin. “I’m cold actually.”

Antonin propped himself on his pillows and raised an arm invitingly. “Come here and let me warm you up.” He was warm as a cup of tea and she sank into him with a sigh, muscles relaxing where his body heat soothed them. 

Being in pain, Hermione had learned throughout her time with Antonin, was exhausting work. Muscles cramped as they tensed with every flinch, adrenaline and endorphins flooded the brain, and sweat poured out. Afterward she nearly always fell into a heap and slept.

Tonight was no exception. A soon as she’d found a comfortable position against the larger body she drifted off; he was still running loving arms over her.

The snowy blankness that was a kindness of pain lingered over the next two days as though it had wrung her dry and the well of depth was empty, or frozen over, or something. It didn’t really matter; she was safe from the demons of her mind.

_ Could Occluding be like this? I should learn, really learn _ . What she did usually was something like rudimentary Occlusion, but there was much more to the skill. Perhaps she could get Professor Snape to teach her someday. She’d discuss it with him when she could.

Around the end of the second night Hermione was starting to feel the cracks, but she buried it in the forest and smoke of his throat as he curled around her. She stirred against him in the morning as his chest shifted under cheek.

“You can keep sleeping, kitten.”

Hermione shook her head, the idea of loneliness a burr in her sleep-addled state. 

“You want me to stay with you?”

A nod as she murmured, “Bad dreams…”

Not  _ bad  _ like nightmares, but she could feel a gape, a yawn created by soft faces and familiar voices. Even the sweetest dreams of them opened up her sorrow like a blossom to their sun. She didn’t want to sleep again, though she also wanted it more than anything.

Antonin’s weight settled again beside her and he wiped her cheek from tears she hadn’t been aware she’d cried. “Shush, love, it’s alright. I’ll stay.” He pulled her into his arms as she quietly cried herself back to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three-to-five chapters left. Follow me on the Tweeter or elsewhere for more info on the upcoming sequel and other things.


	50. Promises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione has a vital discussion with Snape.

Draco was brooding, bruise-eyed and huffing as much as he ever did their sixth year. At first Hermione had put it up to being under Voldemort’s thumb, only he hadn’t been as much a wanker since her stay at Malfoy Manor. At times he was friendly, even kind.

Hermione suppressed her usual humming whimsy that overcame while she worked categorizing and shelving and carding, sweeping it out of sight as her eyes kept flicking to the boy with an aura of darkness coating him sticky as tar. There was something Antonin had said a while back that niggled at her and the cogs started wheeling into place as she fought the tug to talk to Draco. Antonin had asked after Narcissa and the elder Malfoy had reacted as though slighted. 

The moment had been overshadowed by her nerves when faced with her future ally, so she’d forgotten to ask. 

There was always something.

Narcissa had been kind to her while Hermione was in her home. What happened to the doting mother? She had a chance to ease the current of her curiosity now, but it would be cruel to ask the boy who was clearly wrestling demons whether his mother had been killed. And she wasn’t sure she could handle the stony weight of another death over the cracking shell of her heart too recently broken.

Still, the Slytherin was so despondent it tore at her soul. Hermione wanted to do something. And she was British enough the words popped out almost on their own.

“Would you care for tea?”

The blond head snapped up, eyes startling pale in their deepening sockets. “Sorry?”

“Er, Winky!”

The house elf popped into being and Malfoy’s gaze transferred to her. She had been particularly decrepit after the battle, at least when Hermione had called her the first time. Winky was the only house elf she knew at Hogwarts now. But her uniform was consistently clean these days and the scent of Butterbeer wasn’t overwhelming.

She bowed, lanky hair falling forward around her slim shoulders. “What can Winky do for Miss?”

“We would like to take tea, Winky. Cups for Mister Malfoy and I, please. I’ll take chamomile. And Malfoy will have…” Hermione trailed off to look pointedly at him, Winky following suit.

“Orange pekoe, if you please.” The neat words rolled off his tongue, smooth and at odds with his haggard state. The elf bowed again and popped away. “Tea, Granger?” His pale brows rose with the mocking in his voice.

Hermione brushed her skirt and sat in her usual chair near the entrance, the one she occupied when she took refreshment with Antonin. “There is never an occasion that does not call for tea,” she said evenly as she crossed her ankles. 

“And what is this occasion exactly?” That arched brow of his, while pale as his mother’s, was so distinctly his father that it raised the hairs on the back of her neck. Did she have moments like that, when she so perfectly channeled one parent that it was eerie?

A pang tightened her hollow chest; she’d never have anyone to tell her. 

“I could use a cuppa myself.” His eyes narrowed a fraction, but his lips remained shut. 

Triangle sandwiches and biscuits accompanied tea, a pleasant addition considering Hermione rarely remembered dinner unless whoever her keeper was brought it up. She’d get back home and suddenly find herself too light, like a feather balanced on its quill, ready to tip at the slightest breath.

Librarian’s work was hungrier than she’d imagined; it was easy, especially for someone like her, to lose oneself in the quiet weight of the stacks. Hermione would pace up and down the shelves, memorizing the positions of every book she slid into place, creating a map of the bindings in her mind. It was like bailing her mind free of the ocean it had become. And her feet were sore with all the walking nearly as much as they’d been on the run.

A touch of sugar and cream swirled along with her spoon, deepening the honey tea to ivory. Malfoy’s was as pale as hers when she glanced his way. 

They sipped in silence for a moment, both of their gazes darting to and way from one another until Hermione at last broke the tension. “You haven’t been sleeping well.”

There was that wry expression again. “You reckon? You look like you’ve been sleeping alright.”

“I have, I suppose. It’s better than being on the run.” Her brows twitched in echo of the internal wince. “In some ways.”

Draco hummed. “He really does take care of you, doesn’t he?”

Pink was flushing through her chest, cheeks, ears, as she thought on that. She bathed every morning in fragrant water, dried with clean, fluffy towels. Every day something pretty was laid out for her to wear. Breakfast, lunch, tea, dinner everyday. Topsy has learned all of Hermione’s favorites and would provide them in the weekly rotation. And whether in her own bed or Antonin’s, she slept in comfort every night. 

_And I pay with my companionship in and out of bed._ It came to her then with sudden clarity how others must view her; Hermione Granger, muggleborn sidekick of Harry Potter, was selling herself in bits and pieces for a little peace. Her throat tightened and eyes grew hot. 

“Granger?” Her ears rang, drowning her name to underwater muffling. “Hermione.” Fingers eased over her own and she looked up with wide, red-rimmed eyes. “It’s alright.” She shook her head. “Yes, it is. That wasn’t a criticism. You’re doing what you have to survive. And no one is even getting hurt by it.”

“I am,” wheezed. “ _I am._ He hurts me nearly everyday, Draco. He cuts me up and whips me and slaps me and-- and that’s not even the worst part.” The hand beneath his tightened on her napkin. “It helps. The pain helps me forget. Last time I asked for it.” At the parting of his lips she added, “No, I really asked. I wanted him to hurt me so I wouldn’t have to think of the fact that Mrs. Weasley was dead. What kind of monster am I?”

“You’re not a monster.” She hazarded a glance at his own eyes, startling blue amid tired veins. “Pain can be cathartic. You’ve gone through so much. I-- honestly, Granger, your life has been shit. If you find a little calm in the storm, who could blame you.”

Hermione wiped away errant tears. “He’s turning me into what he wants. Next thing I’ll be eight months pregnant and asking him to make me into mincemeat, locked away in his chambers like his own mother was.”

The lines at the corners of his eyes deepened. “Nothing he dies to you, nothing you do to survive will change that you’re Hermione Granger.”

She worried at her lip, tasting copper from her own teeth, and wondered at this little pep-talk. He was certainly more his mother’s beneath the surface than he let on. Kinder.

A cleared throat had their hands parting with enough force to shake the china. “If you don’t mind, Draco, I would like a moment with Miss Granger.”

“Of course.” The young man stood and smoothed a hand over the front of his robes, nodding to her and walking toward the desk to give her privacy with the headmaster.

“I have something for you, Miss Granger,” he began as he peered down from his considerable height, dark eyes contemplative pools. “But first I must have you word that you will not use it until the appointed time.” She opened her mouth but it hung dead when he drew a slim length of vine wood from his sleeve. Wonder bloomed in her chest alongside disbelief. “Mr. Ollivander assured me this belonged to you.”

She reached a trembling hand, but Snape kept it aloft. “My wand? I thought it was lost.”

“Yes, well, it was found amid the rubble. As I was saying, there are conditions. You must swear to use it only when the time comes. It is absolutely imperative. You must use it to keep Dolohov away from the fray. Kill him, stun him; the first is preferable, but the second will do.” His eyes narrowed to glimmering slits. “Do you understand?”

Swallowing the cotton film in her mouth, she said, “Why?”

“The remaining forces will be attacking that day. Dolohov is a formidable foe and he would not hesitate to use you against our forces.” He quirked a brow. “Does that satisfy you?”

“A battle? Will I be joining in after?” 

Snape rolled his jaw. “An ally will take you where you’re needed. Now, swear that you will not act before the appointed time or I’ll snap your wand instead of giving it to you.”

“I swear.” His eyes darkened and Hermione tried again, hardly needing to consciously put intent behind her words as eager as she was. “I swear on my magic I will not use my wand until the appointed time.”

His thin upper lip twinged, nostrils flaring, then he proffered the wand in her direction. The magic buried in the seedling at her core burst first in a shower of golden sparks as her fingertips touched the familiar length of vine. It was nearly alive in her hand, friendly and warm and ready to cast. Buoyant joy bubbled from her mouth, oaken eyes shining like summertime as the missing sense switched on. 

“I advise hiding it before anyone sees you’ve manifested it somehow.” Chagrin colored her cheeks, but could not dampen her effervescence. “I also advise, however you might be adverse to murder, killing Dolohov. Because I promise you this, Miss Granger: if he lives you will never be safe from him. Nothing, not even Azkaban will keep him from trying to hunt you down.”

Foreboding settled like ice in her stomach as she nodded. “I know.”

He studied her, numbers and equations scrolling behind his eyes as they darted to her hardly-visible feet to her barely restrained curls, then acknowledged her admission with a curt nod. “I expect we’ll be seeing one another soon.” Another nod and her swirled about in a swishing of black.

Antonin swept in moments later, his dark curls mussed from the duelling lesson, and planted a kiss on her cheek. His own were flushed, eyes darting to her body beneath her modest dress. How long would it take before he was dragging her to Floo straight into his bedroom. She wondered. 

“Have you reached a good end for the day, my love?” A pink tongue darted hungrily over his lips. 

His pupils dilated as she bit her lip. “I suppose.”

“Good.” 

  
  


Velvet lips trailed her throat, but Hermione was studying the shadows over Antonin’s shoulder. Kill him, Snape had said. Kill him or she would never be free.

 _He only escaped before because of the Dark Lord._ Thoughts floated along the darkness, stuttering at his nibbling teeth. _But he’s not exactly worth saving, and I may only get one chance to take him down_. 

She groaned, hips rolling unwillingly against his as Antonin sucked at a nipple. Heat coiled from chest to core and his chuckle on her skin only added to the fire. “My eager little kitten. Would you like me to fuck you now?” 

His length nudged at her teasingly and Hermione turned her cheek to maintain the illusion of control over herself.

“I know what you need, my love.” Sandpaper stubble nuzzled along her cheek like a great, rough cat. “Don’t I?” The head dipped into her slickness and then whirled teasingly at her clit. “ _Don’t I_?” Lancing pain laced her skull as he fisted her hair, neck arching back til her muscles could be traced with his tongue. 

“Yes,” she hissed.

His teeth scraped the corded muscles of her throat and she whined breathlessly. “‘Yes,’ what, kitten?”

“You know what I need.”

A circle of his hips stole what little breath she could draw as she was. “Is this what you need?” Antonin chuckled at her attempt to nod against his grip. “Tell me.”

“I need you.” The words puffed from her more air than voice. She knew what he wanted as his cruel ministrations continued. “I need you to-- to give me--” Any way she went about it Hermione knew the words would fumble on her tongue. “Please.”

“Keep going. Beg for me.”

Hermione scrunched her eyes shut, fighting against her pulsing core. “Please fuck me.”

His thrust into her, walls stretching to accommodate him. Within seconds he had buried his whole length and she was writhing, all thought of her impending task wiped from her lust-frothing mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sooooo close to finish I can taste it. It will be about 100k words total.


	51. Appointed Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is essentially a chapter of Hermione over-thinking.

The coin had a new arc of numbers for its serial. Hermione touched the raised gold numerals as though reading them with fingertips, committing them to memory both by touch and eye. She imagined it was still warm from the change, but it was more likely her body heat, having held it for minutes now. Had it been cold when she checked it to find the change? She couldn’t remember.

This was it, the day Hermine was expected to act. 

Her eyes darted toward the clock, noting that only hours remained. She still had not decided her course of action and it weighed on her like stones in a river. Could she kill the monster that held her captive? The man who held her in his arms and called her his love? 

The boy who'd mourned the loss of his unborn siblings with a woman lost to the world. It was no wonder he longed for a family of his own.

Hermione wanted freedom more than the air in her lungs, but she knew she was lying to herself if she thought she was capable of premeditated murder. 

As cruel as Antonin might be, he was also a tender lover when the sadistic beast inside him was sated. He enjoyed providing for her, had a quick wit as well. There were days they'd while away reading in companionable silence, hours they'd discuss something one or the other had read. He could be thoughtful, leaving potions at her bedside to ease cramps or setting aside books on topics she'd mentioned previously.

He thought he loved her. 

He was a murderer. He'd killed people she knew, cared about. One of Voldemort's lieutenants, he was the first to lead in the fight against insurgents. And he delighted in the pain and death granted at the end of his wand. 

She should kill him.  _ Avada _ him when his back was turned. But a vice tightened around her heart at the thought, a sick feeling stirring in her stomach. 

Hermione didn't love him. She was as sure of that as she was of her love for her parents. But he was human to her and it was hard to gun down that which wore a human face, especially when you'd been privy to all the little quirks of their humanity. She was not a snake, had never cast an Unforgivable, and did not think she could begin with  _ that _ one, not even on him. 

Watching Harry cast the  _ Imperius _ at Gringotts had curdled her stomach, and that was perhaps the gentlest of the three.

That left her with incapacitation. 

Antonin would not suspect it. Life had fallen into a disarming pattern since Samhain; even before they’d found a rhythm of a sort. He had his wand on him, of course, but he didn’t use it for mundane tasks. It usually remained securely up his sleeve. At times he even set it on a tabletop, content that his charge could not touch the dark handle. As warm and welcoming as hers was, his wand was all piercing thorns and disdain. Worse than ruining her spells, it simply refused to cast at all.

Was it best to disarm him first or attempt to knock him out? On the one hand her disarming charm was among her best, and would surely work whether the other managed or not; on the other, it was not incapacitation. It would leave him with options.

_ Either might start a duel. _ She held her head in her hands, the whirlpool of arguments chasing downward in a frenzied ache that threatened to tear apart her mind. Incapacitate. Disarm. Kill. Torture. Incapacitate or disarm. 

She had cast so little recently, a few of the weakest, easiest spells sans wand lest Topsy or Antonin come in unexpectedly and see her beloved focus. She couldn’t bear to lose it again. 

Without it her magic was too wide a net, too flimsy, uncertain and directionless. Hermione’s magic had always been a precision tool, but that was honed and trained from the start.

Perhaps if she could catch him without his wand… though the guaranteed times were while he bathed, slept, or engaged in sexual acts; two out of three of those would have her underneath or beside him. He often undressed her and kept clothed or stripped after. Hermione would have to hide her wand before that and anticipate his actions well enough it would be where she needed it, when she needed it. That was too risky.

Was she clever enough, she wondered, to spoil his clothes and send him to clean up? 

That might be her only option. After all, cleaning charms just did not work as well on clothing and tended to leave an unpleasant sensation of still not being clean when it came to skin. Nothing beat a bath.

Hermione tucked her wand in her dress and the coin in her slip-on shoes.

_ You’re a Gryffindor, for Merlin’s sake. You can do this. You  _ must  _ do this. _

She straightened up and slipped through her door, padding to the dining room for lunch.

  
  


“Might we have tea?” Hermione was curled against his chest with a book tucked tight to her body. It was his favored way to read and she’d eventually begun taking her own comfort in the warmth and stability of his presence. His book was propped against the back of the settee and her shoulder.

Antonin nuzzled his chin on the top of her head. “I suppose we might. Topsy. What would you like, my love? Your spiced chai?” She hummed, a nauseating bitter-sweetness twisting her stomach. “You’re looking a touch tired. Your chai always perks you up.” 

Topsy bowed low when she popped in, silently watching and taking note of her master’s words. This was a common enough occurrence; the little elf kept herself out of the way during the couple’s more domestic moments, drinking them in with a loving glint in heavily lidded eyes the size of orange slices. 

She popped out with the same lack of fuss and returned in exactly enough time to have steeped two cups of tea to perfection, a neat pile of biscuits accompanying the pot. 

“Would you like to move to the sitting area?” His inquiry tickled the hairs on her cheek.

Hermione sighed and pressed her face to his chest, inhaling the comforting scent of him. “I’m comfortable here.”

“Then here you shall remain.” He Summoned her teacup, already prepared to perfection, and kissed the tip of her nose when she smiled up at him. As he took his own Hermione prayed that he didn’t feel the thundering of her heart; she felt as though she could see it through the silk of her dress and in the fine tremble of her hands. “Wonderful idea, kitten. I never realize I want tea until I have it in my hands.”

She couldn’t do it too soon, she reasoned, half-listening to his contented murmurings. Antonin couldn’t suspect this was all planned. One cup and then she would spill. Just one cup to soothe her frazzled nerves.

Halfway through her second, pages turning with regularity but no words seeping through the fog of anticipation, Hermione had her perfect excuse. As Topsy apparated into the library she jumped and spilled her cup across Antonin’s scarlet shirt. Her book fell forgotten to the other side.

“Fuck!” His exclamation sent a thrill of fear through her and she hopped from his lap to press napkins to the spreading stain.

“I am so sorry, Antonin. I was just reading and not paying attention and… I am so sorry!”

  
A large, rough palm covered her own, drawing her attention to his face. “Relax, love. Accidents happen. As it is, I was going to shower this evening anyway. There’s a meeting at the crack of bloody dawn.” He tipped her chin as he stood, lips slotting with her own for a brief, tender kiss. “Would you care to join me?”

Warmth flooded her cheeks and he laughed.

“Another time then.”

When his footsteps trailed away she stole a glance at the clock. Time was on her side. 

Hermione checked through her mental list of wand, coin, equations (Merlin knew why she wanted those, but she refused to leave them even if they would soon be obsolete, and they were folded up and tucked away), and toed toward the master suite.

Steam fluttered the light streaming below the door to his bath, the whirling white in accompaniment to the rushing water in her ears. It seemed not at all muffled by the closed door. 

A perfunctory scan told her what she needed; his shirt was not out here, nor was his wand. He must have stripped in there. 

There was nothing for it. She would have to face him in the little room, couldn’t even try to call him through to the bedroom lest he grab it on the way. 

Hermione clambered onto the bed and pulled her knees to her chest and stared at the clock on his mantle, the second hand ticking in hollow imitation of her heart. Plodding moments dragged her along until she shakily rose to her feet. Soaked hands wiped along her legs, fingers dancing inelegantly. Soon. She would have her wand soon. Her wand hand darted to check its position again. 

“I can do this.  _ I can do this.” _ Hermione swallowed through her terror. Had she been so afraid during the battle at Hogwarts? In the ministry? On the run with Harry? 

No, that was different, she decided. Those were all in the moment and with her best friend. This was anticipated, alone.

_ Tap tap tap. _ Her fingers against her thigh trampled faster than the beat of her racing heart. 

“Okay.” Her palm curled around the knob.  _ Okay.  _

It swung open before she realized she’d turned it, moist air rushing to greet her. 

Antonin had turned off the flow, leaning back in the glistening water. Cool eyes flicked open at her approach and a lazy grin unfurled across his lips. “Did you decide to join me after all, kitten?”

Wide eyes darted to the sink, the little table of toiletries, the neat stack of his clothing, seeking out his wand.

It was across the large tub from him, but still much too close for comfort. She needed to do this carefully. Antonin, decades her senior and keenest dueler among the Death Eater ranks, would beat her unless it was all perfectly timed.

“Er, yes,” she stammered, gathering her thoughts and intentions. 

Hermione sat on the edge of the tub and slipped off her socks along with her shoes so he would not see the coin. She didn’t want to do this but needed the moment it would buy to think.

As her right hand slipped behind her back to the wand tucked away, her left thrust palm out and she thought,  _ Accio Antonin’s wand, _ down to her magical root. His prickled at her hand even as she straightened her own and she snapped into a dueling stance.

Antonin shifted, water sloshing around him, and she sent a stunning hex over his shoulder. “Don’t move.”

_ Do it, do it, do it, do it.  _

“My, isn’t this a surprise.” He settled back, head tipped as he studied her with a predator’s fascination in those pale eyes.

Her knuckles were white around both wands and her body nearly creaked with tension.

She did not miss the mocking lilt to his voice as he asked, “Well, kitten?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of you may have noticed that we have a chapter count. That's right, I've written to the end! It's about 100k words, officially the longest fanfic I've ever written, and there is a sequel coming. I'll post details after the last chapter.


	52. Reckoning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will Hermione be able to cast against Antonin?

“I--” Hermione licked parched lips and swallowed down the hyperventilation threatening to wheeze out of her. 

“Are you going to kill me, Hermione?” His voice was smooth, interested, but otherwise unaffected. 

That wasn’t right. She was the one with the wand, the power. 

She straightened her shoulders. “I can. I should.”

A shake of his damp curls, a huff of amusement. “You won’t, even _if_ you could, my little lioness.”

Though she colored with humiliation there was no sense in prevaricating. “But I _am_ going to stun you.”

He threw his head back, roaring out his amusement. When he leveled his eyes back at her, they still glimmered. “You’d be better off killing me, love. You know I won’t let you go.”

Her nails dug more deeply into her palm and she wondered that there was no blood dripping yet. “You won’t have a choice.”

“While I live, you are mine. And I do not relinquish what is mine, Hermione. If you leave me, I will hunt you down. I will not let you go.”

“I know,” she croaked. “But I will never stop running.” 

They were so still that she could hear the echoing spill of a drop of water that fell to make ripples in the bath. He’d once told her he needed a wand to read her mind, but Hermione felt transparent before the steel of his pale gaze. She knew she needed to act; why, then, could her limbs not move against him?

“Who gave you the wand?” 

Her eyes narrowed. 

“Was it the Malfoy boy?” 

She snorted. 

They lapsed into silence again, Antonin drumming a forefinger on the porcelain as he thought.

“Hm. Severus, then. He’d have the opportunity, but what of the motive?” He raised a brow at her, reading what he could in her flushed cheeks and fluttering lashes. “Well, I suppose he still isn’t over his dead mudblood, whatever the Dark Lord might think.”

“Do not use that word.”

“Or what? You’ll hex me?” His lips quirked. “Put your wand down, love.” Antonin’s expression softened to sorrowful affection she knew too well and he tried for reassurance.. “I knew you’d make a serious attempt eventually. I’m not angry, not even disappointed.”

She shook her head. “No. No, this is happening, Antonin. You’re not winning.”

“My sweet girl, you need me.”

“No!”

“You do. You’ll need me more in the months to come.” Antonin’s voice had fallen low, a tender whisper across her flesh. “I’m only trying to take care of you, my love.”

Why was this so hard? Why had she still not said the word? “Don’t call me that.”

“But I _do_ love you, Hermione. I want to spend my life with you, have a family with you--”

“Stop it! Shut up, shut up, _shut up._ ” Her wand hand was shaking with lactic acid build up, but she did not lower it, couldn’t yet. “I hate you. I will never be your wife. I will never be yours. _I hate you_.”

Her resolve hardened, nostrils flared, and Antonin’s pupils widened to engulf the silver of his eyes. At her last growled words he flung himself forward and decided her timing for her.

“ _Stupefy!_ ” The spell shot from her wand with months of pent emotion feeding into it. It barrelled into his wide chest, red as blood, red as the _Cruciatus_ , and he flew into the wall behind him with a sickening crunch, drywall cracking around him. “Fuck!” 

Had she killed him? Hermione darted to his side, his thorny wand clattering to the floor in her wake, and checked his pulse. Her shoulders slumped with relief. There was a little bleeding, but Topsy would soon see to that. She needed to get out before the elf realized anything was amiss.

Hermione rose, dusting her hands on her skirt though her wand was still sturdy in her palm. “ _Incarcerous._ ” Bonds whipped around him and she stepped deftly over a towel across the floor. The first chime of the hour zinged across her nerves and Hermione stumbled out the door in her haste. 

An ally was supposed to come and help her. Her eyes darted blindly across the room and she crossed to leave Dolohov’s chamber, slamming doors behind her on her way to the drawing room. 

As she caught herself on her chair, breaths puffing out of her mouth, the fire flashed green and black boots filled her vision. Darkness threatened to swallow her as she lifted her torso upright, and Hermione wondered if she was hallucinating.

“You, you’re…?” Hermione laid a stabilizing hand on the arm of her chair. “Why’re you here?”

Lucius Malfoy lifted a haughty brow. “Severus sent me. Did you dispose of Dolohov?”

She shook the dark blossoms from her vision. “Sorry, what?” As the man’s jaw tightened, the words started coming faster. “Yes. Yes, he’s-- you’re the ally?”

“Indeed. Come; we’ll be needing your skills.” He held out a gloved hand. “Only those with a Dark Mark can initiate Floo travel from here, Miss Granger. Do hurry.” The leather creaked against her skin as she took it in one shaky hand, something like shock creeping through the trellis of her ribs as he tugged her toward him. His wand had been tucked away in a blink and he flung a fist of powder into the flames. “Malfoy Manor master sitting room. He shoved at her shoulders so she barely caught herself before the world swam out of sight.

A vice gripped her forearm as Hermione stumbled out of the Floo and she wrenched back weakly.

“Granger. Granger, it’s okay. It’s me.” She blinked up at Draco Malfoy, who was leading her toward a little settee to the side. 

She blinked into his concerned features. “Draco? Are you a part of all this, then?”

He laughed and sat beside her. “Yes, though I hadn’t a choice either way, really. Father told me only last night.”

Lucius stepped into the room before he could say more, eyes sweeping the surroundings before landing on the pair. He nodded to himself and shook his wrist further from his robe sleeves and twisted his wand tip into his own flesh, murmuring a long stream of Latin she could only catch the barest rhythm of. He then began weaving a series of warding spells over the fireplace.

“I said, ‘Are you alright, Granger?’” She turned back to the younger Malfoy ( _I suppose I should call him Draco now, if I am to deal with his family more often)_ and noted the deep concern bluing his eyes.

“The Killing Curse is quite exhausting the first few times one casts it,” the elder Malfoy drawled as he fell into a wingback chair adjacent to the settee. “I expect Miss Granger will need rest before we start getting patients.”

She perked up, looking between the two of them. “What’s happening now?”

“A battle, Miss Granger. What else.”

“Where?” Hermione stood, wand at the ready.

“Sit down, girl. You will be staying here for the duration.” When she hesitated he raised thar haughty brow again. “I have it on good authority that you are competent enough as a field medic. Draco has studied a bit of healing as well. The two of you are best kept here to attend the wounded; I will be fetching them myself as only Malfoy blood can cross the perimeter on its own.”

She frowned. “I’m a good fighter,” Hermione insisted.

Deft eyes flicked up and down her form. “You’re still shaking, girl. Be reasonable and _sit_. This is not a debate. Your presence will only distract our side.”

Her wand bobbed unconsciously and she bit her lip, then finally nodded and sat back on the couch. “Will it-- will it be long?”

“It’s battle. It could be moments or days. Enjoy the silence while it lasts.” He went back to rubbing his temples and staring into the fire.

Hermione pulled her knees under her dress and against her chest, huddling around herself for warmth. She hadn’t put her shoes or stockings back on, hadn’t grabbed a cloak, nothing, and it was December and _cold_ even inside, the marble floor practically ice underfoot.

She flinched when a sherpa blanket settled over her, then unfurled beneath it and smiled faintly at Draco. “Thank you.”

“You have a wand of your own, you know,” he reminded gently.

She’d forgotten. Hermione opened her hand, stiff from her grip, to stare at the length of wood. “It’s been so long. I’m almost surprised my magic still works.”

Draco chuckled. “The day you can’t cast a spell is the day magic itself has failed.”

That was the kindest thing he’d ever said to her, perhaps one of the kindest ever said in her whole life. Hermione opened her mouth to reply but a sleek tabby padded through the wall and twirled around Lucius Malfoy, and her old head of house’s voice filled the air.

 _“Two at spot five; two at spot five._ ”

Mr. Malfoy rose and neatened his robes, staring at the pair. “Do not leave the room before I return.”

“Yes, father.” 

Hermione nodded under the narrowed gaze and that seemed to be enough as Lucius Malfoy strode from the room and left the two former rivals alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I will be posting every day until the end. I'm working on updates for my other fics as well, and will hopefully be starting the sequel soon.


	53. Truths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Healing during battle.

“Is there more dittany?” Hermione had cut through the thick robes despite the way they’d started to dry and stick to the man’s flesh. It was just in time, as getting cloth from wounds was both painful for the patient and irritating for the medic, magic or not.

Draco swept a hand through his sweaty blond hair, looking every bit as bedraggled as she felt. “More?” Hermione nodded. “Bloody hell. Yes. In the cupboard there are shelves stocked with potions. We should have at least another bottle.”

Hermione crossed the makeshift infirmary and started skimming the labels as soon as the door was open. A cry sounded over her shoulder and she whipped her wand impatiently, Summoning the vial to her fingers. She was back at her patient’s side in time to push at his chest, the stuffy man protesting against the need for treatment again.

“Please let me do my job, Mr. Diggory,” she repeated for the third time, thumb deftly popping out the cork. “Once you’re healed enough to walk without a limp we’ll see about returning you to the field.”

Nearly every conscious person who’d come into the manor made the same assertions. They were fine; they didn’t need healing, they needed to rejoin the fight. It was nearly as exhausting convincing them to receive care as it was to  _ provide _ the care. At first it had heartened her, though that was tinged with muddy guilt that she had not joined the fray herself. Now she’d accepted her role as necessary, and wanted to see to it as quickly as she could in order to move to the next injured witch or wizard in the queue.

She was nearly dead on her feet, but a Pepper Up and determination kept Hermione going. “Alright, let me see you walk.” She finished bandaging the man and stepped back to let him amble in front of her. “Hydrate and eat something-- the elves have nourishment laid out across the hall-- and you can return to the battle.”

“Right.” The man beamed at her. “Thank you, Miss Granger. I will see you after this mess is finished.”

Hermione nodded and waved her hand toward the door, glancing around for her next task. Draco was hovering over an unconscious girl. She recognized her as a muggleborn from Ravenclaw, a girl who would be a sixth year were she allowed at Hogwarts now. 

She drifted toward him, a hiss wincing from clenched teeth as too much blood entered her vision. 

_ That explains his concentration _ . Dittany might help, but blood replenishing potions were called for, certainly. She darted to and fro while Draco incanted solemnly over the Ravenclaw. He slumped against the wall, cheeks flushed from effort, and Hermione lifted the girl’s head to tip the red potion against her lips. 

“Hope there aren’t too many of those,” he huffed. “ _ Vulnera Sanentur  _ is bloody draining as fuck.”

Her brows rose but she didn’t chide him; as the hours wore on, Hermione had learned that Draco Malfoy had the mouth of a Royal Marine. She stroked the girl’s throat and lowered her head back to the square little pillow. “She’s so young.”

“So were you.” His voice was heavy as stone as he studied her. “So was I. Fuck, we still are.”

And what could she say to that? They were.

The girl stabilized and the two makeshift healers took the momentary peace to collapse into their seats. She was bone weary, drained physically and emotionally and, for the first time in too long, magically as well. The world drifted away in the fluttering of her lashes.

"You!” Her heart leapt into her throat as Hermione jerked violently from her nap, body stiff from sleeping in the bare wooden chair. Her torso was jolted forward, hot breath on her face as she blinked sleep away. Red-faced and snarling, Lucius Malfoy growled down at her. “You little bitch, you didn’t kill him?”

Her lips parted twice in effort to catch up to the moment, but her mind was sluggish with thoughts of dittany and blood. It took a moment for context to settle in, understanding finally sliding behind her eyes. “No.”

Mr. Malfoy hauled her from her seat, her shoulders meeting the wall with a  _ thunk _ . “Do you have any idea what you’ve done, you daft cunt?”

“Father--”

Her throat pounded against the forearm he’d laid across it, his grip tightening on the collar of her dress. He snapped a palm out to silence his son, eyes like the horizon cutting through her. “That is now the most dangerous man in all of Wizarding Britain. Perhaps all of Europe itself. I asked if you’d killed him and you told me you had. Tell me right now why I shouldn’t toss you out for him to collect?”

Memories flooded her of her hours of indecision, padding back and forth in her mind as she warred between incapacitating her captor and well-deserved death. How she’d stood before him, locked inside herself and shaking, his cruel eyes burrowing to her quick. Tears rushed to her eyes as terror overwhelmed the residual weariness from her bones. “P-please, Mr. Malfoy. I c-couldn’t.” 

The quiet loathing in his voice was far worse than the growl of his previous words as he said, “You couldn’t kill him. You couldn’t kill the man who had held you captive, raped, tortured, and  _ humiliated _ you for half a year?” The black of his pupils pinned Hermione as she trembled, crying silently. She thought he might kill her until cold laughter stroked her cheeks. “You pathetic creature. On your own head be it.” After a last shove Lucius Malfoy stepped away and she slid to the floor in a shaking heap. She cowered against her own knees, freezing, aching, wrung out, reality around lapping in waves.

Draco and his father were shining blurs as they exchanged low words; there was a startled exclamation and then Draco was shaking her, joy radiating from him like a fresh breeze. “Granger, we did it! He’s gone. We  _ fucking _ did it.”

She wiped the stream from her eyes and sniffled. “What happened?”

“He’s dead,” the young man repeated, beaming the news at her like an angel reciting the gospel. “The Dark Lord--  _ Lord fucking Voldemort _ ,” Draco said as though he relished taking the name in vain. “He’s dead. Just a corpse. An ordinary body on the battlefield.”

“The Dark Lord is dead? You’re sure?” Tears suddenly forgotten, she peered between the two men, Draco who was bursting with the news and Lucius who had removed his outer robe and was neatening his cuffs. 

The latter gave a stiff nod. “I must fetch those whose wounds were not enough to need tending during the battle. Draco, make sure Miss Granger doesn’t do anything else stupid.” The words fell like spit over her, wrenching out a flinch of self-loathing from the girl.

“Wait. What happened with…” Hermione couldn’t say his name. 

Lucius sneered down at her and turned away.

“Come, now. It’s alright.” Draco slid his arm around her shoulders and pulled her against his shoulder. “You couldn’t kill him, huh?” She started sobbing again and he ran a long-fingered hand over her knotted curls. “I couldn’t kill either when it came down to it.”

Hermione hiccoughed an unwilling laugh against his wrinkled white shirt. “You were ordered to kill Dumbledore. It’s hardly the same.”

He was silent and still as marble, then resumed stroking the back of her head and over her spine. “You had it harder, I think.”

“Really? Hermione pulled back enough to stare earnestly up at him. “Why’s that?”

Pain flashed across his face. “You lived with him for six months, no one to support you or care about you. Alone and going through things, terrible things you shouldn’t have experienced. Of course you couldn’t kill the one constant in your small, cruel world.”

Hermione laughed bitter shards of glass, then wiped her hands over her face, tears salting her skin. “I suppose I should be glad Harry and Ron are spared this, at least.” The boys’ names twisted her heart and she frowned into nothingness. 

“Well, about that…” She frowned at him in query, but he didn’t need to answer, the truth already on its way to her. He was staring at the door, anxiety written across his features.

A commotion in the hall drew her attention and Hermione stared toward it and used the wall to brace her rise; voices and pummelled and footsteps barrelled toward the room preceding the tumultuous wizards that rounded into sight, battleworn and bleeding, bedraggled and weary.

At their appearance all the air vanished from the room. The vacuum in her lungs overcame her and she leaned back against the wall in wide-eyed disbelief.

“Hermione.” The burly young man crossed the distance in three long strides and trapped her in his arms. He smelled of sweat and grass and spearmint, of a home she’d thought lost.

It took three tries for her to murmur the name, the question in it a desperate prayer. “Ronald?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two more chapter... I'm about halfway through my updates and then I will feel I can start the sequel. I've posted hints and polls and whatnot on twitter.


	54. Ends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last true chapter; Hermione deals with the aftermath and learns what happens next.

For several long minutes Hermione clung to the young man. It was a lot like coming home at first, though it was a home one had seen burned to the ground, a blackened match in one's own hand. Then creeping threads of other emotions wove into her until they trapped her in them, so that she clung to him to hold herself in reality rather than out of affection or joy. 

“Merlin, Hermione, I thought I’d never see you again.” His corded arms tightened around her until her chest felt constricted, her mouth smothered, and she pushed at him.

“ _ You _ were worried?” Her hands fisted his jacket, thudding against his chest with all the might Hermione could gather in her cramped space. “Ronald, I thought-- they-- you were dead!”

Ron’s broad hands rubbed her sides. “I’m so sorry, Hermione. So, so sorry. We couldn’t let you know, had to keep as much information from them as we could. When Neville came he was so adamant that it caused the same fights all over again.”

Hermione tugged from his chest, his fingers interweaving to hold her in his arms. “Fights to tell me you were alive?”

“Well, those too.” His sky blue eyes were too bright, like the sun was creeping into them and threatening to overwhelm her vision. “But we mostly fought about rescuing you.”

The dread building in the back of her mind sank into the darkness to settle in her stomach. “I’m sure you were happy to have an ally though.” He half-smiled at her. “You-- you kept fighting for me.” It wasn’t a question necessarily, but his eyes gave away the answer.

“I never gave up on you, that I’d see you again. And Snape kept us informed, of course.” 

Snape had told them about her situation. Oh, God. She was going to be sick. “You knew what was happening to me?”

“I mean,” he hedged, “between him and Neville, and Malfoy later, we got the basics. But we didn’t get  _ details _ or anything, y’know? I don’t think I’d… well. We knew he wouldn’t kill you or starve you. I didn’t want to, did all I could...”

Hermione’s palm flattened on him, shoving away to stare incredulously up into the familiar freckled visage. “Oh. My God. You knew.” His fingers finally parted to let her slip through, hands rising in supplication as he opened his mouth to explain. “You knew. You  _ knew _ what he was doing to me and you left me there. No! No, Ronald Weasley. I don’t want to hear your excuses for why  _ you _ didn’t fight, why you went along and accepted that I would be martyred. For half a year. I would  _ never _ \--  _ Harry _ would never leave you there. He never would have left  _ me _ there. Christ Almighty. I know why I was left. Why it was tactical. But you left me. You. Not them.  _ You. _ ” 

She turned toward the wall, hands covering her face before she exploded in a wreckage of pain and anger and grief. 

“Hermione.”

A hesitant touch slid onto her shoulder and she shrugged it off. “Get away from me.”

His presence lingered there, mouth opening and closing as he struggled to come up with the words that would bring her back to him.

“Give her some space, Weasley. Come on, I’ll see to your leg.” Draco pulled the broader boy away and Hermione darted to the toilet, heaving acid into the porcelain bowl. It ate at her throat, deafening the screams she wanted to hurl through the mirror and herself.

It was late when Hermione finished in the infirmary and headed to the kitchens. She expected to find Draco in the dining room, stuffing down food of his own after the tiring day. 

Instead raised voices and stuttering chair legs greeted her ears. Members of the resistance were gathered around the long table. Snape, Lucius Malfoy and his son, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Professor McGonagall, Ron and Mr. Weasley and Bill, Neville--

Who looked up at the creak of the door, eyes widening in wonder before he swept from the table to crush her in a bear hug.

“Hermione, thank fucking Merlin. I’m sorry. I tried, I really did, I swear.” The large teddy bear of a boy was crying into her shoulder and she rubbed circles on his back.

“I know, Neville. It’s not your fault.”

He rocked her gently side to side and Hermione almost laughed at the reassurance he took in holding her. “You’re-- I know you’re not okay, Hermione, but I hope you will be someday.”

There was a soft cough behind him and Neville parted from her reluctantly. 

“Perhaps, Mr. Longbottom, you could allow us to proceed with the meeting?” The Scottish brogue drew her eyes to the woman she’d known and respected for years. “Miss Granger, I am so relieved to see you.” She nodded in return, voice too heavy to speak. 

Kingsley favored her with a wan smile, Snape and the Malfoys with a look alone, and Mr Weasley pulled her into a fatherly hug of his own.

“Miss Granger?” Hermione looked back at her professor. “The people in this room are the only ones who will know about you for the time being.”

She lowered herself into a chair between the woman and Mr. Weasley, gaze darting around the occupants. “But--”

“We all know as well,” Arthur Weasley added. “All us Weasleys, that is.”

Prof. McGonagall hemmed and straightened. “Yes, well. The few who recognized you today have been… left without an idea as to your whereabouts.”

Hermione’s skin prickled where the thinly veiled burrs behind their inquiring eyes touched on her. “He came looking for me, then.” That explained Mr. Malfoy.

“Why didn’t you kill him?” Ron didn’t sound angry. No, his voice was laced with concern and disbelief and genuine curiosity. 

Their eyes sharpened on her and she dropped hers to a table nearly the same color as they were, though it was polished bright. Her fingers traced the fine grain patterns. “I don’t know if I can cast that curse at all. Not even on him. Bellatrix maybe.” A sad laugh passed her lips. “I did what I had to, and I did what I could.”

“You left him at home, knocked out and with his wand a few feet away. I wonder how quick his elf was to realize her master was incapacitated,” Mr. Malfoy spat, disgust still burying his handsome features.

His wand. Hermione could have slapped herself. She didn’t think of that. Why hadn’t she thought of that? It was positively simple. Her bare toes curled against the rug beneath the table as she added that to the list of things to berate herself over. His wand, her coin, her own weakness...

“One might wonder, Miss Granger, if you’ve developed that muggle illness where captives fall in love with their captors.”

_ Stockholm syndrome _ , she wanted to reply.  _ It’s an emotional bond, not love, and can be characterized by dependence and seeing lack of cruelty as kindness. Popular in the media, but never included in the DSM.  _

“Lucius.” 

He ignored his friend, stormy eyes darkening on her. “I deserve to know if I should expect you to violate the wards of my house and crawl back to him.”

Her mouth opened in horror.

“Lucius.”

“No, Severus. The girl didn’t kill a man who abused her for half a year and I want to know why. I deserve to know why, lest I shelter a little cuckoo in my nest.”

“ _ Lucius _ .” His voice severed the ice of the other’s gaze, tugging it toward himself. “Not everyone is capable of killing outside the heat of battle.” Obsidian eyes lit upon Draco. “I should think you, of all people, would know the truth of that.”

The elder Malfoy grimaced as though swallowing bitter potions, but kept his mouth closed. 

“What’s this about Hermione staying here?” It was Mr. Weasley, his warm eyes touching her gently before moving along. “She has the Burrow once it’s fixed up again, or Grimmauld, where we can all keep her safe.”

“Unfortunately.” Snape enunciated each syllable so that it fell on their ears with the weight of a full sentence. “That will not be happening. Too many go in and out the headquarters, and the Burrow’s defenses have proven vulnerable before. Instead Miss Granger will remain here, where there is nearly a millennium of ancestral protections in place, and where Lucius has sworn to protect her as one of his own.”

Ron scoffed. “You can’t be serious.”

But the words niggled at Hermione’s mind, reeling out the memory of their exchange in the library. She was supposed to be his ally, and he was clearly not trusted here. Some all she was proving herself to be. Hermione bit her lip, then decided. “He is, Ronald. Mr. Malfoy swore to me himself.”

“Hermione, he’s a self-serving git. He only agreed to bring you here so Malfoy Junior could stay safe and sound, and  _ he _ wouldn’t be active in the fight.”

Nearly everyone raised a protestation and Hermione’s eyes nearly bulged from her skull. “I can’t believe--” She gulped a mouthful of air and swallowed the furious words. “I am staying here and that is final. Unlike all of you, I don’t allow others to vote on what I do with  _ my _ body.” Her eyes spoke venom at them before she drew back and swallowed that too. “I am tired, so I am going to bed.” Hermione turned to the lord of the house. “The Green Room, I assume.”

He graced her with an elegant nod and Hermione responded the same. “Good evening,” she addressed the gathering before spinning on her heel.

“Hermione,” called that too familiar voice, but she grit her jaw and stepped through the doorway. Many times she’d run toward that voice in her dreams, screamed back across the horrors of battle, hoping he heard her and was running to her too. This was the first time she’d ever walked away. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a short chapter left, then I will be seeing you all in the sequel if you choose to read it.


	55. Obsession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We end how we began.

The room was in ruin. Ice glittered in the firelight like the tundra under a bloody sunset, fire roaring in faint echo of the hours before, the battle through which he’d cut a deadly swath looking for her.

Hermione.

She’d surprised him again. Beautiful, flighty little creature, spinning away as soon as he thought he’d attuned to her. His little lioness; she’d bared her fangs at last.

His finger ran the rim of the crystal tumbler holding his brandy. She’d felt the sting of his own often enough, his teeth imprinting on her flesh and soul. Much as she denied it, she needed him now. The way she’d responded to him even while her wand was turned against him, sweet fire begging to be banked.

When Antonin caught her he would spirit her somewhere no one could steal her away again. That had been a weakness, he realized now, showing her off to his fellow Death Eaters. That traitor Snape had dangled ideas of her over Malfoy and his brat, whispered discord among them all, and operated to liberate her from her rightful place.

And her rightful place was undeniably with him, as his beloved and the mother of his children. Perhaps his forefathers had the right of it; such treasures were not meant for sharing. His grandfather and father had both hidden their wives away here. That would not be an option for him any longer, as too many turncoats knew enough and were clever enough to snake their way through his wards. His family’s magic was too young on this land.

There was the old home in Russia. No one had occupied it since the old maid cousin who’d waited like a fool for a man to leave his wife. The Dark Lord had killed the man in the end, but she’d accepted his abandonment by then.

_ And the world is better for it _ . Antonin knew enough to know that.

Antonin drained the amber liquid and tossed the glass to the floor. The old home was beautiful, if hauntingly dark. His family magic ran deep there, a thousand years of births and burials. 

He hadn’t visited Russia since he was just out of childhood; Antonin had spent a long summer there between third and fourth years, wandering the forest surrounding, even stumbling onto a muggle village once. They’d paid him deference; the Dolohov name was known there.

Antonin settled back in his chair and watched the fire burn. He would find Hermione soon enough. He had to; his family was at stake, and Antonin was a family man at heart.

He’d have to arrange a marriage when they settled in Russia. It wouldn’t do to have his firstborn a bastard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Ron's survival was the big twist. If you read back, you'll find a friend unnamed in the second interlude. That's Ron.
> 
> When I first started this story it was unplanned. I had no idea where I wanted it to go or what I wanted it to be, just many ideas where it not go and would not be. When the idea of a sequel hit me, I was very much back and forth on it.
> 
> The sequel will take place with Hermione at Malfoy Manor. I don't have it all planned out, but I have many directions I'm watching to see which unfurls. It will not be a Dramione. It will not exclusively focus on Antmione, though there will at the very least be one meeting between the pair (and lots of obsession from Dolohov). I'm planning on it mostly being a Lumione, or maybe half-way being there. We'll see.
> 
> Also, I want to write a more Russian Dolohov later; this Antonin was raised in the UK. So this won't be my last Antmione.
> 
> I'll work on responding to comments on this chapter since it's the very last. I know I kept many things vague, but that's either because I want to discuss them in the sequel, or I don't want to give you everything. For instance, if you don't want to read the sequel, feel free to make up where it goes from here.
> 
> I still have two more fics to update before I start anything new. I'm also going to be working on a sequel to one of my OF erotica books, so I don't know if Cassiel's Lament (working title until posted) will come out as quickly.
> 
> Anyway, I appreciate all of you reading, commenting, sending kudos, etc. It means a lot to know people resonate with something I've written. 
> 
> Much love and I'll "see" you all soon!

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry to anyone reading my other WIPs. I needed to break myself out of a funk.


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